


take the heart you thought you had

by wytch-lyghts (flight_on_broken_wings)



Series: take the heart [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archmage AU, Archmage Caleb Widogast, Byronic Heroes & Heroines, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Level 20 AU, M/M, Pirate Captain Fjord, Political plot, Power Couple, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Trauma, Under-negotiation, immediate campaign 2 episode 49 spoilers, maintaining canon relationships as best I can, the flavor of this "Dark" AU is capital R Romantic and brooding, they fuck like animals y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 141,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight_on_broken_wings/pseuds/wytch-lyghts
Summary: Archmage, Warmage, Firebringer, Dark Hand of the Cerberus Assembly: Caleb Widogast was not ignorant of his role in all this.The Empire is nearly ten years deep into a seemingly endless Xhorhasian war, each lull in the violence leading to greater and deadlier escalation. So when the Empire initiated negotiations with the Revelry - a quiet endeavour designed the starve Xhorhas into submission, but an unlikely scheme in Caleb’s eyes - it was perhaps justifiable wartime desperation, he reasoned. Unjustifiable however was Caleb’s assignment to lead these negotiations, distracting from his work rooting out more dire threats to peace, perhaps from within the Empire’s own ranks. And this Captain sent to represent the Revelry, Fjord? He was one particular distraction that Caleb could not afford.An Archmage, a Cobalt Expositor, a spy, three pirates and their Captain with a demigod patron that has plans for all of them convene in Zadash to end a war. The Divines must have an odd sense of humor indeed.





	1. overture

_The marble is cold, smooth, grey like the ice that freezes in Rexxentrum’s gutters in winter. The corpse that lies across the slab of stone, not quite so grey. But close. Unnervingly close._

_The cold crystallizes in his lungs. Bren inhales, exhales, feels the warmth leech out of him with every breath. Even the firelight from the flickering wall sconces lining the crypt seems pale and cool, like the grey marble sheen that covered every surface of the small mausoleum. Like the corpse, nameless, naked, faceless, grey._

_It’s a clean coolness though. Clinical. Corpse is the right word for it. Nothing about the flesh resting on the stone before him spoke of life having ever occupied it, having ever brought warmth to its skin. It isn’t a body. Wasn’t a man._

_It should be unsettling, shouldn’t it? He should feel, fear, maybe. Or sorrow. But there was nothing._

_“You have seen a corpse before, Bren,” Master Ikithon’s voice intones behind him, over his shoulder from where he can’t quite place, resonating in the back of his skull. He doesn’t turn though, doesn’t look away from the cool display of death before him. He doesn’t feel the need to. Bren only feels the cold, slowly saturating his bones._

_“Yes, Master,” Bren replies evenly, expression carefully blank in the way he’d learned, as void as the man lifeless before him. It wasn’t a question, but it called for an answer anyway. He knows the answer. Ikithon knows it. Ikithon ordered it._

_Bren pulls his eyes from the dead thing, forces them down to the stone floor, ice crawling up his throat, numbing his mind. The black glimmer of onyx catches his eye, the sphere clutched tightly in his hand. Right. There was a purpose, being here._

_Always a purpose for their deaths._

_“Cast it again.”_

_Bren steps forward dutifully, right to the edge of the marble platform. He lifts the onyx sphere cradled in both hands, pale as the corpse and just as still. They don’t shake anymore. Ever. He was pleased with that._

_The words are already pouring from his mouth unbidden. He knows them, but he can’t hear them. The incantation echoes around the marble room, muddled like through water. The ice stabs at his lungs, its freezing fingers digging at his heart, condensing and growing and burning until he’s sure he can’t breath but the words don’t stop, and… something is wrong._

_He’s looking again at the corpse, eyes flashing over the face. Its face. Something- he knew this face. He knew th- He couldn’t place it. Something about it pulls at his gut, and he’d be retching if the magic channeling through him hadn’t locked him frozen where he stood. The onyx sphere thrums in his hands, a black shroud falling off of it like so much rolling smoke. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He wanted out._

_Bren wanted out. He wanted to stop the ritual, something was wrong, but the incantation kept falling into place. He struggled against the icy bindings that tore into him, constricting, eyes locked on the dead familiar face before him. He wanted out. Bren wanted it to stop. He felt a presence, Ikithon, smiling over his shoulder, that tight-lipped grin, paper thin, razor sharp. Bren wanted_ out. _There was the fear. There was the sickness clawing at his insides. The panic. This wasn’t right. He wanted… he didn’t know where he was. He- Caleb wanted-_

Caleb _. Not Bren._

 _“Yes,” Ikithon hissed behind him. “Learn_ . _” But his voice was shifting, his words crashing together with the dull hum of the incantation Caleb wasn’t even speaking anymore, like waves inside his skull. It was darker, deeper, and the fear it sparked in his chest was different from the mortal panic Ikithon had ever produced._

 **_Potential_ ** **.**

_The cold in the mausoleum solidified, the pale grey bleeding together and flooding in around him, and Caleb was drowning, the weight of the water crushing._

_The corpse’s eyes snapped open before him. Piercing yellow through the dark haze, split by a black gash that was fixed on him, and Caleb couldn’t look away._

**_You will do._ **

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb jolted awake, disoriented and swearing in Zemnian as he pushed himself almost upright, elbows braced on the desk where he had been passed out across an open book a moment ago.

He pressed his palms flat against the dark oak to steady himself. His heart still racing, each pulse pushed outward against uncomfortably sweat-slicked skin. Caleb’s whole body ached with the whiplash of being wrenched from too deep a sleep too quickly, and for it, exhausted all the more. Inhaling sharply, cool air filled his lungs, nothing like the freezing malstrom of the rapidly fading dream.

Interesting. Caleb didn’t think he did that anymore.

First he catalogued the desk of his private study before him, strewn with the loose maps, ledgers, and pieces of correspondence he’d been pouring over late into the night. It was a far cry from the usual meticulous order in which he kept his space, but then it was also unusual that he fall asleep at work in his study, and his study within the Assembly Hall no less.

Second, he noted that he was not alone.

The blue spun thread of abjuration magic danced like lightning across his fingers, instinct summoning his defenses before he fully took stock of his circumstances. It caused his unannounced visitor to lean back visibly. She shifted her weight to her back foot cautiously, lifting her open hands to show she was unarmed.

“I don’t know why you are showing me your empty hands to say you are no threat, Beauregard,” Caleb rasped, clearing his throat and sitting upright. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to summon a little dignity as well. “I know you’re fully capable of killing a man with those.”

Shrugging, the monk leaned back against the doorframe, kicking the door closed behind her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to catch you... unawares,” she said, reaching for the last word.

Caleb breathed out slowly, collecting himself. Letting go of the taut pull of magic at his fingertips, he sighed, the dispersed flare of the arcane ward seeming to put Beauregard a little more at ease. Caleb lifted a hand to comb his fingers through his hair instead, pulling it back into some semblance of order.

“Did the Cobalt Soul not teach their pupils to knock?” he asked, eyeing her sharply.

“They do,” she answered, crossing her arms. “And I did.”

Caleb’s mouth twisted into a displeased flat line, only momentary before he replaced it with a comfortable neutral facade. “Ah, I see.” With a wave of his hand that Beauregard followed intently like a snake that might bite her, he whisked away the perspiration that clung to his skin with the faint chill of prestidigitation, tugging at the uncomfortably high collar of his dress robes from the night before. He cleared his throat, standing and beginning to straighten the documents before him. “I apologize then.”

The blue robed monk was silent, though a thought was clearly working behind her eyes.

“Was there something you needed, Beauregard?” he asked, a little sharper this time but not enough force or intent behind the words to betray anything but exhaustion. There was no concealing that at this point anyway. The woman was bullheaded, but she was not a fool by any means.

Her response did not come immediately, but when it did her tone was formal and her words on task-- odd for her, particularly when a question so obviously hovered on her tongue. “We’ve received confirmation that the envoy from Nicodranas arrives soon. We’ve got three, pushing three and a half hours to leave for Zadash.”

His back turned to her, Caleb hissed under his breath, brow furrowing and jaw going tight at the fowl taste of the previously willfully forgotten task. It was so much easier to focus on organizing the warfront, perhaps rooting out a Xhorhasian spy or two. His fingers tightened around the leather edges of the book he replaced in its rightful stack against the window. Pausing at the glass, he spared a moment to reorient himself. Glancing at the sun slowly creeping up over the mountains, barely having had a chance to begin melting last night’s snowfall, Caleb cursed himself internally.

It was only 7:35 in the morning. Last he was aware, it had been nearly 3 in the morning, and he still had hours of work on the Bladegarden project ahead of him before it would be to his liking.

“And Nott?” he asked, back still to Beau. “She has not sent word to me.”

“Arrived in Zadash late last night after breaking off ahead.”

“And you are still intent on joining us, _ja_?” He turned away from the window, fingers twisting around the intricately carved wood of his chair’s backrest as he watched for her expression to shift. She certainly didn’t need to, and Caleb might have prefered she stay in Rexxentrum to continue pursuing their leads. However, she insisted. And, due to the Assembly’s already difficult relationship with the Cobalt Soul and Caleb’s wish to retain his unfettered access to their archives, she was also the one person who was not afraid of his threats of irreparable bodily harm.

She leveled a scowl at him. “You have your job, and you’re my job, so yes, I’m still coming. Sorry for the extra baggage, but something tells me you’ll still manage to teleport us just fine.”

He raised a curious brow. “ _Bitte_ , when exactly did I become ‘your job’? Last I checked-” he pulled open a desk drawer with a muttered arcane word to release the lock- “and I do check often, to determine _why_ you are still here-” he pulled the necessary files to continue his work and shuffled them into his satchel- “you were assigned as…” He fumbled for the word in Common, collecting his notes from the desktop and shoving those into his bag too. “ _Scheisse_ , liaison between the Expositors and my office. Is that no longer the case?”

She grinned at that, a smug look that spoke of something he would no doubt find annoying coming from her mouth. “Yep. And really all that job description entails is following you around, running your errands, and making sure nobody tries to kill you.”

Caleb blinked slowly at her. “Errands is not the right word for it. You are providing an valuable service to the Empire.” It was not a complement, but a neutral fact.

She shrugged. “Probably.”

He hooked the satchel over the back of his chair, returning his attention to the monk leaning carelessly, arms crossed against his door frame like he were the intruder in her study. “Is there something you wanted to say, Beauregard? Or do you simply enjoy standing there.”

There were cracks appearing in his neutral mask and Caleb couldn’t bring himself to care enough to patch them. As the adrenaline from the dream-- the nightmare, the whatever it was, he could hardly remember it-- and Beauregard’s entry faded away, the bone-weariness bled through into frustration and an impatience that was most unlike him. The monk’s intense gaze and her inordinate silence only worked away at his composure all the more.

“Caduceus returned four nights ago.” That wasn’t what she wanted to say, not really, but given her read of him in that moment it’s what she said. “For-”

“General Mastock’s funeral. I am aware.”

There was a pause as Beauregard shifted under his black gaze. She persisted though. “You didn’t attend.” It wasn’t a question.

“Neither did you,” he replied, a steel edge biting with his words now.

She tilted her head. “I’m not the Archmage of Domestic Inquiry,” she stated. “There was no expectation.”

The braziers in the study, ever lit, flickered low as displeasure rippled through Caleb’s chest. “I am the Archmage of Domestic Inquiry. And if I attended every funeral throughout this _gottsverdammt_ war, my office would accomplish nothing.”

His last words came out dangerously cold. He felt under too close an inspection. Between the monk’s looking and the crawling under his skin that was becoming too difficult to ignore, he wanted this conversation to have ended five minutes ago.

Beauregard must have sensed the danger she would be in if she continued pursuing this angle. There was a longer pause this time as she shifted her gaze and stared stoically ahead at the wall. “Cad’s taken up at the Temple of Ioun for the time being. He asked after you.”

Ah, there it was. Caleb blinked at her silently from across the study. If he didn’t know Beauregard, he doubted even he would have caught her shifting uncomfortably under the blank look with which he appraised her.

“You might consider following up with him,” she said, half shrugging. Then more quietly, “I’ve found it helps.”

“I will see you at the Lyceum at 10:30, Beauregard. If you are a minute late I will leave you.”

She relented, nodding at her clear dismissal. As she pushed away from the wall and reached for the door, Caleb couldn’t quite place the look on her face.

“Archmage.”

“Expositor.”

The heavy door closed gently behind her.

Caleb sank back into his chair, grimacing and arching his back against the ache that had set in there. Pressing the meat of his palms into his eyes, he sighed, taking a moment to recollect himself.

Casting his thoughts back to the sleep he hadn’t intended to fall into, and the dream that pulled him from it, Caleb found himself grasping at wisps of smoke. For his old teacher to appear in nightmarish dreams wasn’t necessarily new, but it had been a number of years since the dead man had last returned to torment him. And then there was something else, a ritual perhaps, though what exactly escaped him. Worse was the dark shroud Caleb very nearly still felt over his shoulders, clinging to him, a crushing weight sending a cold shiver down his back.

Were it not for the anti-magic field and layers of wards encompassing the Assembly Hall, shielding everything within, it would cause him more concern.

Caleb found his fingers wrapping around the pendant that hung from his neck without permission.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Barely three hours later and Caleb was gliding across the marble-gilded floors of Zadash’s Hall of Erudition, the city’s extension of the Soltryce Academy hundreds of miles away, with soft footfalls. His black tunic and cloak, embroidered simply in silver with the mark of his station, drifted silently about him as he moved. Where Archmage Caleb Widogast went, if his passing was public at all, he went without great pomp and circumstance.

It was not him, but his entourage that made his arrival impossible to ignore.

The dull clash of heavy plate armor with every in-time step of his personal guard of eight Righteous Brand echoed through the wide halls and vaulted ceilings. He had fought Archmage Da’leth tooth and nail to handle his assignment in Zadash without them, typically reserved for ventures to the front as they were. For whatever reason, despite the low-risk nature of his task, he fought unsuccessfully. And so here he was, become a spectacle of the Cerberus Assembly, playing at the role of political dignitary for an assignment which was doomed from its very conception.

That said, given the current political climate in Rexxentrum, he might make use of the distance and time away. He had… matters to resolve.

Still, he far prefered the backdrop, rather than playing a leading role in the scenes which was his job to direct.

At least Beauregard moved silently.

For all her incessant prying and the unfortunate degree of familiarity she thought it proper with which to address him, she was effective. Useful, even. He would not begrudge her that.

Still, unfortunately teleportation circles only took them so far.

Sight fixed ahead as they followed the path set by Headmaster Occurom, who moved with a constant _tap-tap-tapping_ of his staff and a surprisingly quick pace for a shriveled old gnome, Caleb studiously ignored the barefaced stares of the students they swept past. His eyes glazed over coldly, Caleb swallowed the distaste at being dragged through a heavily trafficked wing of the Hall. Whether it was intentional on the Headmaster’s part, parading about with an Archmage of the Cerberus Assembly and an Expositor in full Cobalt Soul colors in the late morning hours, or merely a misunderstanding of the _discreet_ nature of Caleb’s office, he had yet to determine. Regardless, thus far the Headmaster’s only redeeming quality in Caleb’s view was that he did not drag out pleasantries for too long upon greeting them at the teleportation circle.

Passing through the great hall-- which was surely avoidable yet there they were-- Caleb felt the claustrophobia of too many eyes upon him. He heard the whitenoise of murmurs and whispers, mutterings of both fear and awe, flitting through the stilled clusters of students. From a few more curious though utterly brazen pupils, he felt the tingling aura in the back of his head of recklessly cast detect magic as his defenses rejected and dispelled them with ease. He walled up his expression against it, cold and void, safe.

He was not ignorant to his reputation, built up as a warmage, as an archmage, as a war hero to the Empire. Firebringer. The Dragon of Talonstadt. Shadowmaster. The Dark Hand of the Cerberus Assembly.

It was a relief when the massive doors opened before them and they spilled out onto the green of the campus. The gust of wind was colder than he expected given their southern descent from Rexxentrum, even with the recent onset of winter, tearing wisps of his hair free from the neat knot he’d tied it back in. Still, it was better than the oppressive stagnation of the Hall.

In the shadow of the Zauber Spire, they continued down the paved road to the campus gates. There waited a darkwood closed carriage, windows draped in crushed black velvet, surrounded by Crownsguard to escort them to the guest estate reserved by the Lawmaster where, pursuant to their arrangement, he would be staying.

Of course along with it came the obligatory dinner party or gala or some similar fashion of brushing egos with the city’s upper echelon, but that was a sacrifice Caleb was willing to force Beauregard to make in his stead, if at all possible, for the privacy it afforded.

Speaking of the monk, Beauregard quickened her pace and slid up next to him as they approached the carriage and accoutrement of Crownsguard, retrieving him from his thoughts.

“Before our party becomes any larger and attracts even more attention, I’m going to slip off and check on their arrival, if that’s alright,” she asked quietly.

He nodded his consent. “If you locate Nott, please send her to me.”

“More like if she finds _me_ ,” she scoffed before darting nimbly sideways through the ranks of Righteous Brand that walked in columns on either side of them, striding with purpose across the green and slipping out of the gates without anyone attempting to stop her. He was jealous, honestly.

“Does she require an accompaniment, Archmage?” The question came from Lieutenant Torinn, the large copper dragonborn who led his protection unit, currently bringing up the rear. He was capable, if on occasion overly strict to the very letter of his duties.

“Hm, no,” Caleb answered after a moment, considering it only because it would inconvenience her terribly, and he rather enjoyed that sometimes. “Best not.”

This however was not the occasion. Nott wouldn’t approach her if she had an entourage. And, best case scenario, Beau would slip any guard that tried to follow her anyway.

Torinn nodded, apparently deciding it was beyond his purview to disallow it, and without another word faced front again.

Caleb glanced back at the monk’s retreating form and lost sight of the last glimpse of blue robes vanishing into the streets of Zadash.

Perhaps it was appropriate she came along afterall.


	2. first impressions

Fjord watched through the east-facing window as the sunlight spilled over the flat horizon line, reflecting pink off the distant mountains slightly to the north. He wished that they’d arrived earlier that morning to see the sunrise properly. The Menagerie Coast was all mountains. Everything surrounding Zadash was just flat, baring the rolling hills to the south. He wondered what that would look like, if anything at all.

Their Empire escorts left them as soon as they cleared the Menagerie Coast without incident.  They hadn’t had any contact until they arrived at the gates of Zadash’s tri-spire district, where a dark robed elven man appeared, waived some documents at the guards, and led them to the Pillow Trove without hardly three words exchanged between them. It was unnerving, like their pace had been monitored somehow all along. At least they felt like they had some privacy in their suites, four adjacent rooms down a sequestered hallway with a door that locked.

It was a disturbingly peaceful setup right in the lap of luxury, the stuff that had Jester excitedly squealing about it being just like her mom’s place and Molly basking in everything from the horrid patterns of the canopy bed curtains to the gaudy tapestries in gold, green, purple and every color between. But it was a bit much for Fjord’s taste, and Yasha seemed to agree. But really, it wasn’t the obnoxiously excess that had him unsettled.

Technically, the Empire had nothing against Fjord and his crew. Technically.

Technically-- as Jester loved the remind them-- the Empire was landlocked with only frozen waters to the north, and didn’t even have a navy or merchant vessels to run awry of anyone under the Revelry’s banner.

Technically, as soon as they left the open waters and cleared the Menagerie Coast where  each of their heads earned quite a hefty bounty, through whatever means that little goblin had gotten them across the border, the presiding authority had no cause to give them any trouble. They certainly weren’t wanted in the Empire.

But nothing about what they were doing in the Dwendalian Empire was above board in any sense. 

_ Technically _ , they were emissaries from the Menagerie Coast arranging a naval treaty with the Empire. Technically, Fjord was a naval captain and representative of the Clovis Concord, though what that made Jester, Yasha, and Molly, he wasn’t entirely certain.

What he did know was that the goblin-- Nott, she said was her name, if that was her name-- made it clear that deviating from that story would have very bad ramifications indeed.

Fjord wasn’t exactly sure why the Plank King sent him to work out this damn arrangement in the first place. None of them had ever been to Zadash. None of them particularly wanted to be in Zadash, hundreds of miles from any sea port. And it wasn’t Fjord or even the Plank King or the Revelry that needed this deal with the Empire. Could it be profitable? Absolutely. Could it prove deadly for all four of them at least? More than likely.

The only thing they had going in their favor was that while the Revelry could walk away from this arrangement, Fjord had the impression that the Empire could not. After nearly a decade of war with Xhorhas, if the Empire was approaching their rag-tag association of  _ oceanic entrepreneurs _ , hat in hand, providing an all-expenses paid envoy for the Plank King’s representatives (which would be politically suicidal if its true nature became public), Fjord figured they were in dire straits indeed.

Through conversations occurring over multiple days of travel, these were the conclusions they came to.

Plus, while Fjord didn’t pretend to know all of the finer details of the Empire’s political structure, they agreed the fact that they were set to meet the Archmage of Domestic Inquiry was a significant step up from the shitty backroom dealing with some third tier diplomat they were expecting.

Fjord didn’t recognize the title at first. It was Yasha, more familiar with the Empire’s war with Xhorhas than the rest of them, who put the name to the seemingly meaningless title. Widogast. And that was name he could place. Hard not to.

He’d heard about the firestorm hot enough to melt plate armor that left the battlefield at Talonstadt baren, just like any other sailor worth his salt in stories exchanged over long watches. He heard the war stories, some likely exaggerated, but others he wasn’t so sure about. But that was before the man became Archmage of the Cerberus Assembly. “Domestic Inquiry” sounded like a whole lot of nothing, but considering what they were currently doing, if Fjord were a gambling man-- and he most certainly was-- he’d place that as a pseudonym for all the dark shit you don’t even want your own people knowing anyday.

But a title, a name, and a reputation weren’t nearly enough to go on when stepping up to the negotiating table.

“Feee-ord,” Jester whined, “you  _ don’t understand _ .  Look at this drawing.  _ Look _ at this sketch I made, it’s very good.” The blue tiefling tugged at his sleeve, shoving her open journal under his nose when he turned away from the window.

“Jes, c’mon now,” he sighed, pushing the book down a little further from his nose so he could look at her sketches without going cross-eyed.

“I bet he’s  _ suuuuper  _ old, with a great big beard that’s all scraggly and grey and  _ totally gross _ ,” she theorized gleefully while flitting around the room, waggling her fingers under her chin to demonstrate.

Fjord bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the outlandish caricatures of what Jester imagined the wizard to look like. He cleared his throat, trying to remain completely serious when he said, “Well that’s... certainly possible. Would be awful, uh, clairvoyant of you.”

“He probably walks all hunched over and shuffley with a great big staff- Oh! Yasha!” she called out excitedly, spinning around to face where Yasha was quietly clearing her sword at one of the overstuffed couches, an interesting sight that made for quite the juxtaposition with the delicate extravagance of the room around them. “Do you think there’s a crystal ball on top of it? Like that one wizard we met in Port Damali?”

Yasha paused to consider it, her rag midway down the edge of Magician’s Judge. “I don’t know if that was a real wizard, Jester. I think he was… something of a charlatan.”

“What? No way. That guy was definitely magic,” Jester insisted, pouting. “Right Molly?” 

A sharp-toothed grin in place, Molly propped his chin on his fist and winked back at her from where he lounged across the foot of the bed. “Darling, you know I can’t reveal another cheap hack’s tricks. I should just hate if someone did that to me.”

Jester made a deeply wounded noise, clutching her hands together. “What?” She narrowed her eyes at Molly, suspicion creeping up on her face first, then a clever grin. “Aw,  _ Molly _ , you almost got me,” she chided, waiving a disapproving finger at him. She spun on her heel and tugged her journal back from Fjord’s hands, collapsing into an armchair and flipping through the pages. “That’s alright. I know magic when I see it.”

“There was also that guy on the merchant ship outside Brokenbank. Pretty sure he was a wizard,” Yashs added.

“Oof, I’ll say,” Molly agreed, flopping onto his chest and sprawling across the bed dramatically.

Yasha winced. “Sorry.”

“S’alright love,” Molly waived it off. “Everyone has to take a lightning bolt to the chest sometime. Really gets the blood pumping.”

“Yeah,” Jester sighed. “But that guy was just, like, a guy,” she complained, biting her lower lip as she concentrated on her pen scribbling across the pages in her lap. She scrunched up her nose, shaking her head. “And also like he wasn’t that powerful or anything cause I smashed him with my lollipop  _ pretty good _ you guys you remember that?”

“I dunno Jes, you’ve smashed a lot of guys pretty good,” Fjord shrugged, leaning against the window frame. “At some point, they all kinda blend together.”

Jester made an indignant noise, glaring just a little a Fjord. Before she could say anything though, Molly interrupted. “Don’t listen to him, dear. I remember perfectly.”

Fjord looked back at the garishly dressed purple tiefling, frowning. “Mols, whatever you’re doing to my bed over there, I’ma need you to stop it right now. You can go back to your own room for that shit.”

Molly glanced up at him through his eyelashes, grinning seductively while still wiggling against the satin bed cover presumably to get comfortable, stroking his cheek across the silky surface. “I don’t know Captain, it’s awful comfortable. And we’ve been travelling for  _ so  _ long.” He raised a propositioning eyebrow at the half-orc. “Sure you don’t want to join me?” he mocked, voice dropping low and alluring. At least Fjord assumed he was mocking, given he could never really tell with Molly about these things.

“Tempting, but no.”

“Shame.”

Fjord was saved from coming up with a clever response by a string of loud knocks against the door at the end of their short hallway, around which all their rooms were connected.

They froze, friendly atmosphere immediately dispelled. With wordless glances and nods exchanged between them, they arrived at a silent agreement.

Yasha rose from her seat, returning her greatsword to its sheath over her shoulder. As she walked across the lounge into the hallway, Molly rolled to his feet and grabbed both his swords from the table. He positioned himself right behind the room’s open door as Jester, clutching her symbol of the Traveller at her belt, carefully tucked her journal away under a couch cushion and went to stand with Fjord, ready for whatever happened.

Yasha, after sparing them a moment to position themselves, opened the door worlessly. There was a long pause with baited breath for the three of them inside the suite, then, in a low woman’s voice, “May I come in?”

Another tense pause. “That depends,” Yasha answered. “Why?”

“I need to speak with your captain. Some conversations are best had behind closed doors. So unless he isn’t here, may I come in?”

“Let her in, Yasha,” Fjord called out. “No harm yet,” he muttered, much quieter.

There was the sound of the door closing, and Yasha’s heavier footfalls, but first to appear in the doorway was a slighter, darker skinned and blue robed young woman, her hair shorn short except for what was pulled up into a top knot. 

She stepped into the room cautiously, eyes scanning. The moment she detected Molly’s presence, now behind her as he casually leaned against the wall, swords in his belt, Fjord could tell by the slight shift in her stance. She didn’t do more than glance over her shoulder though, appraising him once over silently as the ostentatious tiefling grinned and waved. She appeared unarmed though, and unarmored, her hands kept perhaps purposely in sight and down by her sides.

Yasha followed her in close behind. 

Turning so as to keep each of them in her sight, the woman nodded to Fjord first. “You must be Captain Fjord. Unless you’d prefer a different title?” She raised an eyebrow, looking at him like she already knew his answer, or it was some challenge to prove her wrong. 

He crossed his arms, keeping his stance casual. “And you are?”

“My name is Beauregard. I’m an Expositor of the Cobalt Soul,” the woman, Beauregard, answered.

“You’re a monk?” Jester blurted out, cocking her head to the side as she looked her up and down.

That curiosity, a divergence from whatever formality Beauregard seemed to be trying to bring, honestly seemed to throw her off. “Eh, yes.” 

“I’ve never met a monk before,” Molly mused. “Interesting.”

“But how would you  _ know _ ?” Jester remarked, looking at Molly. “We didn’t know she was a monk before she told us.”

“That’s an excellent point, dear,” Molly said with a snap of his fingers, pushing away from the wall and approaching the others. “I don’t  _ think  _ I’ve ever met a monk before.”

“Alright, alright,” Fjord chided, crossing his arms. “Bring it back.”

“That must make you Miss Lavorre,” Beauregard said, eyes moving back to Jester. She narrowed her eyes at the monk and pursed her lips suspiciously, but remained silent. “And Mollymauk Tealeaf, though you’ll have to tell me if you have a prefered title or pronoun or something,” she said, eyes passing over to the purple tiefling.

“Whatever works, but please, call me Molly.”

“And Yasha.” Beauregard’s eyes hovered on Yasha a little longer, or maybe just on her arms, but that Fjord understood. Yasha just looked back.

“So, Beauregard,” Molly started, stopping himself and looking like he tasted something sour. “Beau? Beauregard? Do you ever go by something shorting? A little less of a mouthful?”

She leveled an unimpressed look at him. “No.”

“So, Beau, what brings you by?” Molly asked, cocking his hip to the side. “Needed to talk to our dear Captain, eh?” 

“Molly, please,” Fjord tried, sending the man a warning look, not wanting to start anything. He turned back to Beauregard. “You’ll have to forgive this one.” 

Beauregard said nothing, but there was something cold in the narrow eyed look she directed at Molly, even if only for half a second.

“Right, so,” Fjord tried again. “Why’d you come by?”

“I work with Archmage Widogast.”

There was a noticeable shift in the room, everyone’s guard going up just a little. Except Beauregard’s, though she must’ve been used to that sort of reaction when declaring that particular relationship to a room.

“I see,” Fjord said after a brief pause, uncertain as to what to say to that. “And?”

“And the Archmage sent me to determine when you’ll be prepared to meet with him,” she said, seemingly directing her words to Fjord rather than the room at large. Her eyes landed on something over Fjord’s shoulder, bringing a faint downward tilt to the line of her mouth. “How long ago did you arrive?”

“Little over an hour ago,” Fjord said, not quite sure why she was asking.

“Have you not had time to eat yet?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. 

Fjord glanced behind him to what he realized she must have been looking at, the heaping platters of food across the table, still completely untouched, that the inn’s staff had brought up uncalled for half an hour ago. 

“Time? Sure,” Fjord shrugged.

“Time isn’t exactly the issue with that,” Yasha spoke up, her eyes also following Beau’s gaze.

It took her a few seconds of confusion, but Fjord saw the realization dawn in Beauregard’s eyes. She walked forward, past Fjord and Jester and up to the table. Glancing over the platters, she plucked up bits of various foods, a grape, a scrap of bread, a slice of meat, the torn off corner of a pastry, tossing each into her mouth. 

Swallowing, she turned back to Fjord. “No one here is trying to poison you.”

Molly drifted forward, a sly grin toying at his mouth. Reaching for one of the decanters of ale, without breaking eye contact with Beauregard, he poured out a tankard until it was nearly spilling over.

“Molly,” Fjord warned again, more sharply this time, but it didn’t stop the damned tiefling from holding it innocently out toward the monk. 

Neither did it stop Beauregard, who never broke away from the red eyes staring back, from reaching to accept the tankard and, completely stoney faced, drink. Tilting the tankard and her head back, her throat worked with each gulp until the cup was empty and she set it down with a loud crack on the table. 

She didn’t spare Molly a second look, turning sharply on her heel and sweeping past him, forcing him to step back or else be hit by her shoulder. Molly just blinked after her.

In the way of the door, Yasha sidestepped to allow her to pass, but Beauregard stopped short of leaving and looked back at the four of them. “A carriage will be by in an hour. I suggest you get in it.” Then she turned and was gone.

After the sound of he closing door announced her exit, Yasha went out to make sure and to re-lock the door. Fjord sighed heavily as he retook his seat, glaring at Molly. 

The tiefling just laughed. “Oh gods. If I didn’t get the sense she was way more into Yasha’s arms than me, I’d be  _ so- _ ”

“No,” Fjord pleaded, well past reprimanding. “Just, no.” Molly closed his mouth, smiling a little apologetically.

A moment of silence went by as the brief interaction settled. 

“That was kind of… weird,” Jester said to no one in particular. She sighed a touch dramatically. Flopping back onto one of the couches, her tail flicked sadly across the ground.

“Exactly what part, love?” Molly asked.

“Why did she know all of our names?” she wondered out loud, mouth twisting like she’d tasted a pastry she didn’t like. 

“The goblin- Nott? Nott probably sent word ahead,” Molly suggested. “Hells, we have to assume these people know everything, at least that’s happened between the coast and here.”

“Do you think we’ve been watched?” Yasha asked.

They glanced to Fjord, though he wasn’t sure what they expected from him. “It’s possible. What would it matter if we have?”

No one had a good answer to that.

“But she knew my last name,” Jester said, and Fjord heard the nervous undertone there. “Do you think that means they know my mom? Do you think… do you think they’d do anything to her if- if we-”

Yasha went and sat by Jester’s head on the couch, running her fingers through her hair comfortingly a few times. “I don’t think so, Jester,” she reassured softly. “Besides, what have we done to anger any of them?”

“It just means we’ll be careful, darling,” Molly said, lowering himself into a chair across from them, next to Fjord.

Thinking hard, Jester worried at her bottom lip. Digging her hand underneath the cushion, she retrieved her journal and began flipping absently through its covered pages.

A long moment passed as they all considered the implications of what they’d just learned, and what might happen in the next hour.

Jester gasped suddenly, her expression twisting in horror as she dropped her journal to cover her face, her knees coming up to her chest as she squealed. “ _ Ewwww _ , no, guys,” she shrieked, upset. She slammed her book shut, sitting bolt upright to face them. “Do you think  _ Archmage Widogast  _ has ever, like,  _ met  _ my mom?” She grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut.

A chorus of “no”s and “why would you say that”s and “of course not”s did nothing to calm her, not after all their discussion and speculation about how horrible and old and ugly the Archmage probable is. 

It took a lot of reassuring to move on from that thought. 

“You know, I really should have asked Beau what this Widogast guy looks like,” Jester said sadly about her missed opportunity. “Or how old he is.”

“Of how big his beard is,” Molly added, nodding sagely.

“Or how scraggly,” Jester giggled.

“Or how grey,” Yasha suggested, smiling.

“You know, Jes,” Fjord said, scrubbing his hands over his face, “I’m kinda glad you didn’t.”

As far as first impressions were going, even if just with someone who works with Widogast, they left a lot to be desired.


	3. impasse

There weren’t nearly enough shelves in the study to house the chest of books he’d sent ahead with the rest of his belongings. He’d taken to stacking them in the window sills. Not great for long term storage. The sun faded the pages, dried out the leather bindings, made the spines crack eventually. But they wouldn’t be here that long.

Caleb leaned back, digging his shoulder blades into the padded back of the armchair as much as he could without disturbing the cat across his shoulders, just to see how far into the soft leather he could sink.

Shame the estate did not have a proper library.

He’d spent his first hour sleeves rolled up to his elbows scurrying about and warding the house from scrying, divination, every sort of invasive magic he knew. But warding could only guarantee so much privacy and freedom from disturbance; part of that hour was spent ensuring the manor’s servant staff had clear instructions not to enter the second floor, where, when Caleb was in the house, he would be conducting most of his work. Torinn and the rest were used to it by now. They hardly looked at him like he was mad, scrawling all over the pillars and baseboards. Caleb turned his hand over on the armrest, watching the orange-yellow light of the fire flicker off his pale skin curiously. The chalk was still streaked up his forearms, the slightly acrid smell of incense, sage and brimstone still hanging onto his clothes. He needed to put on a fresh pair of robes, maybe. At least change his shirt. At least wash the chalk off.

That seemed like too monumental a task.

There were footsteps across the wood floor downstairs. One his guards. Rhuidra, maybe. The half-orc had heavy enough footfalls. They started up the stairs. He stayed still, stayed seated, couldn’t quite pull himself back to himself. _Drei_ , _vier_ , _fünf_ , a quarter of the way up. He didn’t uncurl his legs from where he’d pulled one of his knees nearly up to his chest, the other tucked up into the oversized seat beneath him. _Acht_ , _neun_ , this was someone else. Her pace was faster. This was slow, each step deliberate. _Elf_ , _zwölf_. Torinn, then.

The dragonborn’s footfalls crested the stairs, starting down the hallway in the direction of the study. Had he told them he would be in the study? Was he just that predictable? Probably.

There was the perfunctory knock at the door, more to announce his arrival more than anything, before the Lieutenant opened it without waiting for a reply. Caleb wasn’t going to give it anyway.

“Archmage,” he grunted, coming to a solid stop just inside the doorway.

Caleb’s eyes stayed fixed on the interesting whirl in the wood grain of the cabinet beneath the window. He breathed out a little heavier through his nose, hoping he would accept that as enough of an acknowledgement.

“We’re all set. One of us will be downstairs at all times should you need anything, with two on the perimeter and a rotation every four hours. Local Crownsguard patrols this way every forty-five minutes. When we head out, someone will keep watch over the place,” he explained briefly. He paused, giving Caleb a chance to pose any questions or make any remarks.

A beat of silence passed. Frumpkin purred away where the not-quite-cat was draped over his shoulders, paws kneading at his collar. It reverberated through Caleb’s chest, a comfortable warm weight.

“Ironpike and Jorgenson’s on perimeter right now. Rune is downstairs. I’ll be here until your meeting with the Clovis Concord emissaries is concluded,” he said curtly.

Caleb hummed a quiet note of assent, forcing himself to nod once, to be present, as he was expected.

Torinn huffed, armored shoulders rising and falling once before nodding once jerkily. “By your leave,” the dragonborn grunted by way of finishing his report, turning and leaving. The door closed firmly behind him.

It had been seventeen minutes since Beauregard returned with a report after her investigation into the envoy’s arrival in Zadash followed by her brief meeting with them. Still no Nott sightings.

Less than hour before their arrival then.

Caleb thumbed over the page corners of the book loosely clasped in his lap, still closed.

He could delay a few more minutes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The grass was slippery underfoot. Too green and soft. Rexxentrum didn’t have grass like this. Everything was just a little more… coarse, there, Nott mused, little clawed knobby fingers tap-tap-tapping away at the silver flask tucked into her belt.

It would’ve been easier if it weren’t midday, the sun up and burning away all the dark bits it was easy to slip between. Would’ve been easier, but that didn’t make it impossible.

She slipped around the wheel of a street merchant’s cart, head down, hood up, feet quick. There wasn’t any snow on the ground, but it was about that time that everyone in the streets wore bulky sweeping cloaks, making her own hood less conspicuous and her darting around people’s feet less obvious. It was a straight path from the Pillow Trove to the estate Caleb was set up in. Not necessarily a straight road, Nott noted, as actually the city took quite a few unnecessary twists and turns just to make more room for the too-green grass it seemed, at least in the tri-spire district. But it was a straight path down alleys and over rooftops and along the dark hedge lines of the tall manors and big houses.

There were lots of fences. Caleb’s temporary house had one too, tall and wrought iron and keeping a perimeter around the house. But not enough walls. Caleb’s proper estate in Rexxentrum had walls. Nott liked those.

She scurried across the street, nearly entirely empty in this area of the city, where not just anyone could walk. There were two of the crimson and silver soldiers that followed Caleb around everywhere that he didn’t want them to (even if they did wonders as far as keeping him alive went). But no one else. One of them leaned against the wall by the front door casually, the other walking around the back of the fence now. She could announce herself at the front gate to whoever those two were, but not everyone in Caleb’s unit knew her by name _and_ face. There was no telling if they would take her right to Caleb.

She climbed up the fence, hopped over the spiky top and dashed across the lawn. No trees, which was good for security, but made it harder. So it was a straight run up the side of the house, then only a matter of shimmying up the delicate wood trellis and to a second floor window. Peering inside, she saw a dimly lit hallway. Fingers clutching at the narrow ledge, she shuffled down to the next window, quickly before the patrolling soldier came around the corner. A bed inside. No Caleb. Next.

The third was more promising. Books were stacked up against the glass, a sure sign of the wizard. Then there was the fire burning on the far side of the room, and the bookshelves and cabinets covered in all sorts of things that lined the walls. And there, mostly hidden by the back of the armchair, was a familiar side profile complete with scarf-cat.

She tapped her claws against the glass gently in their familiar rhythm, hoping not to startle him too much. Except, he didn’t so much as look in her direction. Nott frowned. Shifting her grip to better dig in with her toes, Nott fished around blindly in her pocket for the copper wire, twisting it around her finger and bringing it up to her mouth to whisper.

“Caleb, it’s me Nott, I’m at the window to your right, youcanreplytothismessage.”

Caleb’s head jerked up, uncurling himself from where he was hunched over, chin on his knee. He blinked owlishly over at the window, and Nott waved, grinning a scraggly-toothed little smile.

“Nott?” Her name like a question with a soft Zemnian lilt tickled at the back of her head before the cantrip faded.

Getting to his feet awkwardly in a tangle, much to the apparent displeasure of Frumpkin who leapt to the ground with a probable yowl, Caleb stumbled a little over to the window. He hesitated for a moment as he went for the latch, then began grabbing books stacked up in front of it with a little less care than normal and dropping them on top an already small stack of tomes on a table against the wall a few feet away. Window sill cleared, he ran his hand once over the base of it along a strand of silver, muttering something under his breath before he unlocked the latch and shoved the window pane open, allowing Nott to tumble inside.

He closed the window behind her, his back to her as he went through the motions and mumbled the words to bring the arcane alarm on the window back to life. He didn’t move from there though, looking out the window but, with that thousand yard stare, probably not seeing much. Frowning and pulling down her hood, Nott watched as Caleb’s hands grasped the ledge of the window sill, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with a shallow breath.

“Caleb?” She walked up to his side, fingers closing around his untucked shirttail, tugging gently.

He looked over and down at her, expression blank. “Hm?”

“Let’s go sit down,” she suggested, moving toward the chairs, tugging for him to follow. After a moment he wordlessly drifted behind her.

Caleb was just a little off in the way Nott was familiar with. Quiet, though he was always quiet, but a little lost inside himself, watching and listening but not quite seeing and hearing. It was fine, would be fine. She could handle it. Fix it.

Sinking back down into his armchair, Nott watched as Caleb’s eyes dropped to the ground, to Frumpking circling once around his boots, chirping, before leaping up into his lap. Caleb’s fingers buried themselves in the not-quite-cat’s fur, the fae creature flopping over and batting at his wrist playfully before settling down, purring happily.

Nott reached over the armrest and scratched a finger behind the bengal’s ears. “Last time I saw Frumpkin he was a bird,” she started. “Good to see he’s back.”

Caleb hummed his agreement, stroking long pale fingers through short fur. “ _Ja_ ,” he exhaled quietly. “He was a cat again… two days, after you left,” she said, slowly like the words took effort.

“It’s been…” Nott counted across her fingers, squinting. “Three weeks?”

“Twenty-six days,” Caleb corrected absently, eyebrows furrowed though gaze still fixed on the cat in his lap. He took a shuddering breath, collecting himself. “It- _es ist gut_ to see you, Nott the Brave.” His eyes darted up to meet hers for only a second before dropping away again.

She grinned at him, itching to throw herself at him and latch on but knowing he probably wouldn’t be so good with touch right now. “It’s good to be back.”

Nott scurried over to the table he’d deposited the books on, carefully replacing them one by one on the window ledge again, making sure the spines were outward and in an orderly row, just like Caleb was particular about.

“But let me tell you,” she continued, heartened. “The Menagerie Coast is way better than Bladegarden. It’s very colorful, lots of silk banners and streamers, and everyone’s clothes are so flowy and bright cause it very warm.” Her excitement at recounting her trip got a soft chuckle out of him. “And they put cinnamon in their pastries there. And _everyone_ wears dangly earrings like I’ve never seen in the Empire. Or Xhorhas. Or anywear. I, uh, picked some up for my collection.”

Caleb made a noise in the back of his throat, his expression pinched, not very articulate but conveying a sudden thought all the same. He stood up, picking up the cat this time and carrying it close to his chest as he walked across the study toward the desk. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew a small wooden box, setting it on top the desk and flicking it open with a muttered word.

Coming over to inspect, Nott hopped up on the corner of the desk, perched like she’d seen Beau do a few times. Caleb plucked up a small flash of metal and extended the hand to her, a simple silver cuff earring resting atop his open palm, one of the enchanted set they’d previously used to communicate when she was around.

“I- would like you to take this again, now you are back,” he admitted as if half expecting her to reject it.

“Oh, good idea!” Nott chirped, snatching it and immediately slotting the little cuff next to the other loops around the shell of her ear, wiggling them a little once it was in place just to make sure it stayed. A fond half-smile tugged at the corner of Caleb’s lips.

“ _Danke_.”

“It’ll be useful. I’ll be able to talk to you during your meeting without constantly casting message,” Nott explained, fiddling with the silver cuff.

Caleb hummed his agreement, picking an identical earring up from where a number of them were nestled in the box and looping around the shell of his own ear. It looked nice on sharp features, the top half of his hair tied back in a knot that left it exposed. Its simplicity suited him. But no point trying to convince him to wear jewelry more often- Nott knew the mage only wore “practical” things, and hardly ever shiny things.

“You are intending to stick around, then?” he asked, selecting the words carefully.

“For your meeting with the pirates? Absolutely. These people are completely crazy.” She scoffed, shaking her head and jumping down off the desk. “We’ve got to talk about that, actually. Before they get here, in-” Nott wasn’t exactly sure, actually.

“Twenty to thirty minutes, their haste and traffic depending,” Caleb finished, drumming his fingers atop the now closed box, thumb flipping the latch closed. “Could you... tell me, about them? You have spent time with them, _ja_?”

“More than they know,” Nott agreed, walking over to the attached bedroom door and pulling it open. “What are you wearing, by the way?” she asked, slipping inside the master bedroom. “I don’t think these four have a formal set of clothing between them, so you don’t want to make it look like you’re trying to show them up,” she called out loudly enough to be heard from inside. “You want to look sharp, just not like you’re trying.”

Caleb followed slowly, peaking around the open doorway. “Ah, _ich weiß nicht_ , Nott, I had not put that much thought into it.”

“Hm,” Nott scowled, throwing open the standing wardrobe and running her fingers over all the different textures of robes, tunics, cloaks and coats hanging inside. “One of your nicer robes maybe…” she mused. “Too business,” she muttered, flicking past a black then a charcoal piece he tended to wear to Assembly council meetings, “too military,” flicking past crimson and silver cloth as she continued to cross options off.

“Ah, four of them, I believe you said,” Caleb stated. “I understand there is just one envoy?” he asked, confused.

“Right, the green one. So you won’t be wearing green, even though I think it’s a lovely color on you,” Nott said, eyes still fixed on the options before her. She took her task seriously. “Fjord. Kinda small for a half-orc. I think with a ‘J’, but you don’t pronounce it. He’s certainly the best talker of the lot, for better or worse. I never saw him do any magic, but he does have a vanishing sword,” Nott rattled off. “Makes it appear and disappear in his hand. How do you feel about navy blue?”

“I am not opposed?” he said, freezing as Nott pulled the blue set with silver accents from the wardrobe and held it up to him, as far as she could reach. Nott grabbed his wrist, holding the dark blue fabric against it, eyes narrowed. “Is that- Fjord-” he pronounced the name carefully, his accent half inserting the ‘J’ anyway- “is that a surname?”

Nott tossed the blue robe across the bottom of the bed, shaking her head. “That washes you out.” She ran back to the others. “And no, he’s only got the one name, unless you’d like to call him Captain Tusktooth, but I think that’d go against the whole idea of not letting anyone know they’re a bunch of criminals.”

“I, yes, that will not be happening.”

“I suppose you shouldn’t wear blue anyway. One of the tieflings, Jester Lavorre, she’s _very_ blue. Worships a maybe-god called the Traveller? Ever heard of that? She also does magic. Weird magic. Without any spell components or anything, just grabs her Traveller’s symbol.”

Caleb drifted further inside, sitting on a bench that ran across the foot of the bed. Gently setting Frumpkin down beside him, he clasped his hands in front of him and watched Nott work through an assortment of robes she’d narrowed down her choice to. “I cannot say that name strikes a bell, though I will certainly look into it. That sounds…” he stopped himself. “You know I don’t care about the Empire’s approved deities, but that sounds, like she should be careful about that.”

“Agreed,” Nott huffed. “Why don’t you ever wear this light grey one?” she asked, pulling the bottom hem out where it hung to show him.

“It scratches like hell around the collar, _Schatz_.”

“Ah, I see. Well, that leaves two options.”

Nott pulled two robes from their hangers, bundling them up so as to not drag them across the carpet and draping them both across the bed. The first was a muted deep purple color made of thick wool, the shell all sharp angles lined in black and the sleeves and drapes all long and elegant. A favorite of hers, but Caleb rarely wore it. The second was a charcoal grey with crimson trim and elegant silver clasps running angled from collar to underarm.

Caleb walked up beside her. He reached out, ghosting his fingers over the soft wool as his eyes flicked over them, thinking.

“Tell me about the other two?” he asked. “And more of this ship captain?” His fingers paused at the silver clasps, fiddling with the cool metal. “Beauregard is sharp and her notes are thorough. But you spent time with these people, crossing into the Empire.”

Nott “What do you want to know?” she asked.

He glanced up to meet her eye, and this time didn’t look away.

“Everything.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The half-elf had a curious look to him.

Fjord had never come up against a Righteous Brand before-- impossible to do when the Empire doesn’t have any on the water. But he also didn’t know any regimented army’s soldiers to be outfitted with two slightly curving short swords, no shield, no standard longsword. That, along with the sheer size of the massive copper dragonborn that lead them into the manor, directed them through the hallways, and brought them to the lovely drawing room with the assurance the Archmage would be in shortly led Fjord to believe that the Archmage’s bodyguards were not standard footsoldiers.

The house servant that had brought the tray of sliced cheeses and meats that currently graced the large circular table situated in the corner of the room was leaving just as they arrived, and the half-elf soldier stood by the doors they’d entered on the other side of the room, keeping politely disinterested. Besides those two and the dragonborn that had since left to elsewhere, Fjord hadn’t seen anyone in the manor.

Fjord didn’t bring as many preconceived expectations to this meeting as some of the others, but he did have a few. And this wasn’t it.

Molly and Yasha sat at the table to his left, amiably chatting-- Molly doing most of it-- about the dry weather and nothing particular for no other purpose than to avoid sitting in silence. Molly lounged a little too freely perhaps, a leg extended and boot propped against one of the chairs, but there was no instilling manners in that one. Fjord himself tried not to look too uptight, tipping his chair back just so and putting on an air of confidence he wished he felt. Most of the work meetings Fjord had attended occurred in a ship’s cabin or over a bar brawl; still, the cover, the effort not to draw attention to themselves, which in large part was done by bringing it to Zadash in the first place, made this the most informal formal business meeting he’d ever been part of.

Jester shoved an elbow into his ribs to get his attention. Looking pointedly around the room and biting her lower lip, a show of self-restraint, she wiggled her eyebrows at him. Fjord didn’t even want to think about how much trouble she could’ve gotten up to in just the two or three minutes they’d been waiting for the Archmage to find a convenient time to see them, or something. That was even considering their half-elven babysitter.

Fjord narrowed his eyes silently at her, a warning.

She was precluded from whispering back a rebuke by the double doors at the far end of the room opening inward, revealing a wide hallway of dark polished wood floors and two figures approaching.

The first was the dragonborn again, pushing through the doors. Letting them fall open, he stepped promptly to the side, standing at some form of attention as the person behind him stepped into view.

A young human man in dark grey robes, the material drifting about him gracefully, entered the room. Back straight and startlingly blue eyes forward, he carried with him an immediate air of authority that had Molly subtly removing his boot from the chair he’d commandeered beneath the table. The asymmetric crimson trim cutting a diagonal line across his collar directed Fjord’s eyes across the plane of this shoulders, and the sash of matching color making a belt around his waist dragged them down to narrower hips. That color was complemented by the coppery red of his hair, just brushing shoulder length with the upper half tied back, a single braid running above one ear pulled back into the knot. He looked freshly clean shaven, all sharp cheekbones and jawline, defined brow, and a look in his eyes that said he could not possibly bring himself to give two coppers about them.

Classically handsome, would and probably could kill Fjord without much thought: fuck.

He could feel Jester suppressing an inappropriate comment at just the moment he realized this, probably as she made the same observation, very aware of his type. Hell, he’d admit it, but this was certainly not the proper venue. He felt her nearly vibrating out of her seat.

This was not what he expected.

Fjord cleared his throat, planting his knuckles on the table as he pushed himself up to his feet as the man entered. His eyes looked up and down the man’s form, for a weapon, automatically, and it could’ve been possible to conceal a dagger in the folds of his robes, they were pretty perfectly tailored if he did say so himself.

The man didn’t spare him so much as a moment of pleasantries, waving him back down into his seat with a flick of his wrist and pulling out a seat himself a moment later, joining them at the opposite side of the table. Just as he did so, both of the soldiers-cum-bodyguards stepped out of the room, closing the doors behind them, but Fjord wasn’t fool enough to believe they went anywhere farther than a few steps away. Setting down the soft bound notebook with quill tucked inside and the capped inkwell he’d been carrying, situating them before him just so, the man glancing up across the table.

For the first time, his eyes didn’t just pass through his guests. And they landed right on Fjord.

Fjord did not sit down, and despite his initial impression of the man, he shoved those thoughts aside and met the mage’s gaze. This was business, and not guaranteed to be an entirely safe or successful business venture at that. Still looking at Fjord, he cocked his head to the side just so. A thin crease appeared between the man’s eyebrows, his mouth pressed into a flat line.

“Please,” he motioned to Fjord’s chair. “Sit.” Fjord couldn’t quite place the accent. But it didn’t sound so odd that he was sure he’d never heard it before, not from first listen at least.

Fjord smiled politely, friendly like. “We haven’t had the pleasure. And I should very much like to shake a man’s hand upon meeting him and introducing myself,” he said, amicably as could be. Whether it was the Plank King when Fjord first met him or a rival ship’s captain dragged into their own office on their own ship after a successful commandeering, Fjord like to start the conversation that followed in the same way.

The red-head blinked, not so much looking at him now as straight through him as his gaze went distant, expression blank. He breathed out steadily, never having had a formal smile on in the first place, but if he had been, Fjord figured he might have dropped it just then. To thisrequest though, he seemed to resign himself.

Rising slowly to his feet with the soft slide of the fabric of his robe, pushing the chair back, the man stared blankly across the table back at Fjord, not cold or angered, but certainly unimpressed. He stepped around the table as Fjord did the same, moving around Jester’s chair and meeting him halfway.

They came to a stop standing before each other, barely two feet between them, close enough for Fjord to catch a whiff of incense that drifted around him. He wasn’t above putting the two inches he had on the other man to good use, smiling pleasantly as he examined his face closely, trying to peer past the cool exterior, but to not immediate avail.

Shoulders squared and hands clasped together loosely, he titled his head ever so slightly to the side as he examined Fjord in turn. Like he was a curiosity. Something not quite worked out yet, and hadn’t decided yet if it was worth the time.

For all Fjord’s confident and comfortable fronting, a cold shiver ran up his spine.

 _Predator_ , his instincts warned him.

 _Danger_ , that orcish part of him said.

And it wasn’t entirely displeased.

Very deliberately, the man extended a pale hand between them.

Fjord took it firmly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, still gripping his hand. “I’m Fjord.”

A beat passed before he responded. Slowly, a faint smile curled at the corner of his lips, amused, and that warning bell kept on ringing in the back of Fjord’s head. “The pleasure is all mine I’m sure, Fjord,” he said, pleasantly lilting accent drawing his name out into almost two syllables.  

“I am Caleb Widogast.”


	4. politics

Widogast was sitting across from them. He could not have possibly established a more clear divide between his side, and theirs. Sitting casually sideways in his chair, legs crossed, one elbow propped on the back of the chair while slowly spinning his quill in long elegant fingers with the other hand resting on the table, Fjord would have classified it as lounging if not for how _intentional_ it felt.

What Mollymauk did was lounging.

Widogast presided.

“I trust your accommodations have been found... suitable?” he asked, and Fjord was certain he did not ask questions that he didn’t know the answer to.

“Absolutely,” Jester answered with a winning smile, holds folded delicately in front of her and her tone just as proper. “The Empire has been most gracious.” She adopted a noble lady's persona the moment the doors swept open-- or at least what she took to be a noble lady-- and Fjord was having a difficult time reconciling that with the sly looks and inappropriate gestures he knew she was dying to make toward the rest of them.

“Excellent,” he returned, polite smile not reaching his eyes. “And you have found no difficulties here in the city? I will admit, I am not from Zadash, but I could certainly pull a few strings to make whatever arrangements you see necessary.”

“I’m sure you could, Archmage,” Fjord agreed pleasantly. “But I’m afraid I don’t quite follow what you mean by “difficulties”. Though I’m sure,” he chuckled, “if we ran into any such difficulties we might know and be better able to answer the question.”

The mage looked at him appraisingly, and Fjord felt heat crawl across his skin even as he did everything in his power to loop politely right back. Widogast’s eyes then drifted over to Mollymauk and then Yasha, pointedly inclining his head toward the massive greatsword, its hilt rising over the back of her shoulder.

“Very few individuals outside the pertinent authorities find it necessary to carry weapons inside the city’s walls,” he explained. “Two of you do not outwardly carry weapons,” his eyes snapping back to Fjord, then back to Molly and Yasha. “But two of you do. I was curious if there was a reason. Nothing more.”

“All due respect, Archmage,” Molly began, and gods, Fjord was not confident in how he would complete that sentence. He shot a look of caution masked from Widogast as best he could in Molly’s direction, but the tiefling’s red eyes were locked on the man across the table, heated. “But as a former warmage, aren’t you just as well armed and prepared to defend yourself?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as he looked Widogast up and down, a sultry undertone to his voice. “Some of us just require…” he shrugged, grinning lazily, “more physical means of doing so.”

Fjord was going to kill Molly after this.

Widogast paid no mind to Molly or his flirting thankfully, still looking curiously at Yasha, but mostly it seemed the greatsword that captured his interest. Yasha, to her credit, only narrowed her eyes at him, expression darkening.

“Perhaps that is fair,” he said amenably. His eyes flicked cooly over to Molly before sliding away, conveying what could only be characterized as utter disregard. He returned his attention to Fjord. “I was not going to tell you to stow your weapons. Do what you will. I only urge, call it, a reasonable caution.”

“Of course,” Fjord replied, nodding in agreement. “Nothin’ wrong with a little caution. Perhaps the reason that we’ve not run into any of those… difficulties.”

A sharp smile.

“Perhaps.”

Fjord wasn’t sure how a single word could carry such a cold edge.

Widogast’s eyes travelled back to Yasha, still caught up on that sword of hers. “That is an interesting blade you carry,” he remarked.

Yasha’s shoulders tensed. “It is, yes.”

“It’s design is, quite old,” he decided on.

She didn’t respond right away. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Rather distinctive.”

Listening to these two try to make a point as indirectly and with as few words possible was going to make Jester spontaneously combust, Fjord was sure.

Fjord caught a faint frown tugging at the corner of the Archmage’s mouth and tracked Widogast’s hand as he carefully laid the quill down on the table and withdrew his hand to a pouch at his belt, concealed from view by the edge of the table. Hand moving by his side for a moment more, he mouthed a quiet word and a distinctly blue arcane spark flashed like burning parchment in his eyes.

The four of them across the table stiffened, Molly palming at a scimitar, but Widogast just held up a hand in a peace gesture. His eyes returned to Yasha’s sword and the blue flared before dissipating.

“I apologize for any alarm. But that is a rather large sword, with a rather _unfortunate_ name, and history,” he said, taking care to slowly enunciate each word, tone somewhere between disapproving and amused.

The original purpose behind the making of Yasha’s blade, Magician’s Judge, occurred to Fjord at probably the same time as his three companions.

“Oohhh,” Jester made a quiet sound, cheeks flushing as she clamped her mouth shut and glanced sideways at Fjord. “That.” Yeah, he followed. How to address that little oversight though...

“I think,” Yasha said as she considerd the words carefully, tone as soft as always, “how unfortunate it is, is a matter of perspective. Personally, I’m quite fond to it.”

Widogast leaned back in his seat, raising a curious eyebrow at her. “Oh?” He smiled, amused, still dangerously sharp but also the most genuine expression Fjord had seen on him. “And from my perspective?”

Yasha blinked across the way at him. “Unfortunate.”

That half smile remained. Rather than offend the mage, Fjord thought he looked… thoroughly amused now. He seemed to quite like Yasha and her bluntness, actually. That was dangerous, but it was something.

“I was going to ask by what means you acquired it, but...” And there is was, just a touch of disdain as unfairly blue eyes locked on Fjord again, like he just couldn’t help himself. “Perhaps not.”

Fjord let a second too long elapse before responding, smiling tightly.

“Perhaps.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Frumpkin paced across his desk, yowling discontentedly at the lack of papers to curl up on.

“That,” Caleb said, fiddling aimlessly with the loose end of the sash tied about his waist, “was immensely useful.” Leaning back in his chair, he allowed himself to feel pleased with the day’s progress.

Nott hopped up on the corner of his desk, uncharacteristically void of loose pieces of parchment, books, scrolls and the like. “Oh?” she said, surprised. “You didn’t even begin to talk terms, and didn’t even mention the requirements Archmage Uladan insisted on.” She scratched Frumpkin once behind the ear before flicking a button across the study, watching as the cat darted after it. One of the few cat-like pastimes Frumpkin engaged in without prompting.

“Correct,” Caleb agreed. “We hardly touched terms of any sort of treatise-”

“Didn’t. Didn’t discuss any terms.”

“And I did not intend to, Nott. I only just met these people,” Caleb sighed, not wanted to explain himself. “I required a- a baseline, if you will.”

Nott seemed to consider that, or at least wasn’t going to argue seeing as what was done was done anyway. “Well, did it work?”

“Yes, which is what I was _saying_ just-” He rolled his eyes, cutting himself with an absent wave. “It does not matter. Yes. I believe you were absolutely correct in many of your observations.” Nott grinned at that. “The green one-”

“Fjord.”

“Yes, Fjord. Not forthcoming at all. Annoyingly polite and unerring at maintaining it,” Caleb observed, steepling his fingers. “I am not sure if I am correct yet, but I do believe he has a tell. Every so often he looked at the blue one-”

“Jester.”

“Right, and there was some sort of exchange there. Sometimes when I pushed too hard, perhaps. I will better understand after more observation.”

Nott narrowed her eyes, thinking. “Maybe. I’ve not seen it,” she said, nibbling at a claw as she considered it. “But then I’ve not had the opportunity to interrogate them.”

Caleb tilted his head to the side, confused. “I interrogated no one…”

Nott raised her eyebrows at him. “Where you listening to the same meeting I was?”

“Well I do not know, Nott. Where you listening to the correct meeting?”

“Yes,” she said as a matter of fact. “Now, it’s fine, don’t take offense. All I’m saying is you came out…” She winced. “A little, heavy handed?” He frowned, displeased. “No, that’s not the right word,” she course-corrected. “Just, you put yourself on uneven footing is all. You weren’t equals on either side of that table is all I’m saying.”

Indignant, Caleb opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, recollecting his thoughts on the matter. “Well of course not, Nott,” he said pointedly. “They are thieves and murderers the lot, which I only highlight because that calls their for characters for truthfulness into question. And I am expected to, what, play at being their business partner? I think not.”

The look she gave him did not instill confidence. “Caleb…”

“Oh _verdammt_ , Nott. Just get out,” he sighed, only half serious as he looked away into the fireplace, just embers now. Frowning, he mentally commanded the invisible servant standing idly in the corner of the room to put more wood on it.

“You don’t have to like them,” Nott started.

“Nott, I’m done discussing the matter.”

“But you do have to play nice.”

“Nott. Please.”

“Sometimes you just have to work with people, Caleb,” she chided, causing him to level a glare at her, but those stopped having an effect years ago.

“ _Nott_ ,” he warned, giving her a serious look. She relented, throwing her hands up. “There is entirely too much both you and Beauregard get away with,” he grumbled, pushing back deeper into his chair.

“Maybe so,” Nott agree, shrugging. “But we’re irreplaceable.”

Caleb elected to ignore that comment.

He was truly fond of Nott. He allowed himself that much. Beauregard had her charms, but more importantly, her uses. _Most_ importantly, both Beauregard and Nott were loyal, and that was not something which could be reliably bought, bribed, or coerced.

He would know.

Moving on, he turned back to his notes. Most of it was useless, most of it was-- if it was writing at all-- scribbles in Zemnian to ensure it would not be read from across the table. Really the book was just a prop that he could jot something down in simply to project to the pirates-- _no, no, emissaries_ \-- that he took note of it. It also helped him pretend at least like he gave a damn about this assignment. He did not need it otherwise.

Caleb sighed. “Let’s return to th-” Nott’s long ears flicked toward the doorway, her eyes darting after. “What is it?”

“Footsteps up the stairs,” she explained after a moment of placing it.

“Oh, I don’t-” Nott held up a long knobbly finger. Straining his ears past the crackling fire, in another moment he thought he heard the light sounds, but confirming it was the mental alarm triggered by the silver threat he’d crossed the top of the staircase with. “Ah. Rune. Damn his sneaking about.”

“He’s really quite good,” Nott mused. “Pretty too.”

Caleb rolled his eyes.

A polite knock at the door saved him from having to go down the path of Nott’s infatuation. He called out to enter, and the door swung open partway to confirm their speculations as the half-elf in Righteous Brand regalia stepped into the door frame.

“Archmage,” he greeted in his faintly Marquesian accent, nodding to Caleb before turning to Nott, still perched on the desk corner. “Miss ‘the Brave’,” he greeted her in turn with a knowing smile, as she insisted that he and he in particular do. “There is a gentleman downstairs who introduced himself as Starosta Wyatt Fedar.”

Caleb felt more than intended for his expression to go slack. “That is truly undesirable.” Nodding compassionately, Nott leaned forward to pat him on the hand. He snatched his hand away, glaring at her. She pouted, an interesting sight through all those teeth.

“He has requested to speak with you,” Rune continued, “about-- I believe because he is very, ah, chatty-- a Winter’s Crest Gala invitation, on behalf of the Lawmaster and the city.”

Caleb schooled his expression, swallowing down the great distaste which that thought left in his mouth. He knew it was coming, knew to expect it, still, he didn’t expect it so… soon. And Beauregard wasn’t here to intercept. Nott watched him carefully for an indication of how to react, either with light humor or reservation.

He took a breath. “It got worse, Rune. That is worse.”

“My apologies, Archmage.”

“Is he still downstairs?”

“Yes, with Jorgenson.”

Caleb considered that, frowning as he failed to understand. “Has he not already delivered his invitation?”

“He has,” the soldier confirmed, “to me, Archmage.”

“Then why is he still downstairs?” Caleb asked flatly.

Rune shifted his weight uncomfortably. Caleb was astute enough at body language to know what it meant. He just didn’t grasp why-- it was a genuine question. “I believe he wants to speak with you, Archmage. He asked for you, if you were not otherwise engaged.”

“About what, if he already delivered his message? That is hardly efficient.”

“I- ah- would it be your preference-”

Nott intervened, waving Rune off with a vague ‘abort’ gesture. “Because it’s polite in some circles to deliver an important invitation like this in person,” she explained bluntly, abusing her position of favor to be a little more forward.

Caleb drummed his fingers against the armrest. “I see.”

A moment of silence elapsed.

Sounding uncertain, Rune began, “Archmage, shall I-”

“Tell him I will be in just a moment,” Caleb said after consideration. “Tell him… Tell the Starosta that I only have a brief moment.”

“Very well,” the soldier said, nodding a curt dismissal and closing the door behind him.

Caleb sank lower in his chair, sighing.

Nott gave him a disapproving side-eye. “Are you trying to make his job difficult?”

“I do not want to speak with the Starosta, Nott.”

“Well, you have to.”

“I do not think I have stressed how much I do not want to. _Bitte_.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got to.”

“ _Fick dich_.”

“There’s a reason you’re not a diplomat.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“That,” Molly declared, sweeping around a merchant stall, “was utterly unproductive.” He ignored the stall’s offerings of various fine pottery and porcelains, not the useless trinkets and baubles he dragged them into the city’s Pentamarket for.

“I know,” Jester complained, dancing out of the way of two men on horseback. “He seemed so, so, well, mean.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have tried to flirt with him, Molly,” Fjord condemned sharply.

He walked by Yasha’s side, the two of them barely paying attention to the wares on display throughout the market. Really he’d only agreed to a walk through the Pentamarket because they had far more time to kill than expected and they could do with a loud, constantly moving environment to ensure they could have a private conversation.

Molly winced. “So, fine, he wasn’t exactly receptive,” he sighed. “But if you had the chance, don’t _tell me_ you wouldn’t-”

“Molly!” he interjected sharply with a warning look. “Inappropriate.”

“You’re just jealous,” Molly said, but relented, throwing his hands up dramatically and darting over to run his hands over a bunch of hanging silk tapestries.

“I don’t know, Fjord,” Jester teased. “He is not what I was expecting. At. All. Pretty cold, but still _pretty_ , _ifyouknowwhatImean_.” She winked at him before spinning around after Molly.

“And that accent!” Molly called out, fake swooning.

“I should’ve left you two in Darktow,” he threatened uselessly.

“It was, uncomfortable sometimes,” Yasha changed the topic. She lifted a hand to brush across the handle of her greatsword. “I didn’t think about, you know.”

“Yeah,” Fjord sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That was- there was that. I don’t think he took offense though. Just…”

“He was curious. And, I think he thought it was funny, in a way,” Yasha surmised. Hells, she was probably right. Figures that the guy had a dark sense of humor.

“Do we think it’s weird that we didn’t actually talk about the thing we came all this godsforsaken way to talk about? I mean, my tailbone’s still bruised from so long in a saddle,” Molly complained, returning to walk beside them. “And we only got about an hour into a conversation that mostly consisted of us stumbling our way through not offending him so badly he melted us in our chairs, and him looking at us like there’s some sort of puzzle to figure out here. I mean, as if I weren’t completely transparent,” Molly scoffed. “Then he-” Molly mimed snapping a book closed- “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” he said in a poor imitation of the man’s accent.

“I did think that was weird,” Yasha agree, “us being there an hour and not talking about the treaty. “He strikes me as someone who appreciates… straightforwardness?” She frowned at herself. “I don’t know.”

That was met by hums of agreement.

“You know,” Jester began, thinking carefully. “Sometimes before my mom accepts a new client, she has like, not like an interview, but she spends time with them just like talking and stuff.”

“I think you mom and the Archmage’s lines of work are a little bit different, Jes,” Fjord cautioned.

“I know that,” Jester rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying, maybe he wanted to like get to know us or something before talking about business.”

“Well now dear,” Molly mused, “you might just be onto something. You think he was sizing us up? Trying to get a read on us?”

“I’d buy that,” Fjord sighed. He couldn’t shake the look Widogast gave him, all piercing blue eyes and amused sharp smile. He swallowed, still feeling the pressure of that look. Heat rose to his face, and he suppressed the need to glance around just to make sure no eyes were currently on him.

“I think he’s playing a very different game than us,” Yasha said.

“How do you mean, dear?” Molly asked.

Mouth pursed, Yasha stared at the ground as they walked for a long moment. “I think he comes from a world where negotiations are a bit more drawn out, a bit more complicated. Where everyone has their own secret agendas and smiles when they try to stab you in the back.”

A beat of silent contemplation passed.

Fjord leaned back on his heels, looking up at the evening sun. “I think that’s real fair Yasha,” he admitted. “I can’t remember the last time one of our negotiations didn’t involve a round of drinks and open threats across the table. Doubt that would work here for these Empire types.”

Jester nodded. “Well, the backstabbing bit seems familiar though,” she added helpfully.

Fjord chuckled. “That, sure. But as for the rest, I think we’ve got to learn a whole different game here, like Yasha said, though I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“I think it’s politics,” Yasha said simply.

Fjord nodded in agreement. “Either that, or convince Widogast we’re not trying to pull something over on him when we try a more straightforward approach.”

Molly cocked his head to the side, glancing across his crew mates. “I think _he_ thinks we’re here for his sort of politics.”

“I think he’s gonna be sorely disappointed,” Fjord said.

Winding their way through the market, a few bits of jewelry for horn decorating and a new dress later, they continued their touring of the city but for the most part let the conversation die. They had little more to add than outright speculation at this point anyway.

And they didn’t want to run the risk of prying eyes and ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much who've left kudos and comments encouraging me to continue this. I appreciate you all very much. 
> 
> If you'd like, y'all can find me on tumblr @ wytch-lyghts


	5. garden parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather than be angry about the Game of Thrones finale and the turn the last season took I decided instead to spend way too much time writing critical role fanfic and pour all of my emotional energy into getting these boys to flirt. I got halfway there, but I think it's appropriate for where the fic's at.
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments, I enjoy reading them immensely <3

“One.”

“Four.”

“One,” Caleb repeated, equally firmly.

The great copper dragonborn crossed his gauntletted arms. “Six.”

Caleb closed his hands into fists as his sides, doing everything in his power to not also cross his arms. “That is not how this works. One of you may accompany me.”

“How this works, is you submit a formal written request to the Captain of the Imperium Garrison, who either denies the request on its face or approves it for circumstantial review by the Lieutenant assigned to the protection unit in question, who either approves the request or modifies it,” Torinn said, giving a needless explanation to a useless process Caleb knew very well. 

The Lieutenant annoyed him. His strict penchant for the rules annoyed him. His eight inches of height on Caleb annoyed him. That fact that Caleb could do nothing to eliminate his presence annoyed him.

He was annoyed. Greatly. And he was starting to because frustrated with that fact.

“I will not, nor have I  _ ever _ , submitted a formal written request to eliminate your services which requires me to outline  _ in detail  _ where I will be,  _ what  _ I will be doing there, and  _ with whom _ I will be doing it,” Caleb said flatly, trying very hard not to escalate in tone, but to only a minimal degree of success. “ _ Verdammt _ , do you not understand how counterproductive that would be?”

“I do understand that Archmage. So let’s skip ahead. I’m the Lieutenant assigned to this unit. Consider your request modified. Four.”

Caleb stared blankly at him for a full minute. He counted the seconds. Torinn did not budge.

“We’re in the middle of a war, Archmage.”

It took every ounce of professionalism he could muster to withhold an immediate sarcastic reply. “So be it,” Caleb said quietly, expression blank. He immediately turned and swept out the front door of his temporary manor.

“Archmage, don’t you da-”

Torinn was only fast enough to catch the sight of his coattails vanishing in the purple mist of the dimension door that snapped closed behind him.

Caleb reappeared instantaneously three streets away in a quiet park shrouded by tree cover on all sides. Glancing around, glad that there was no one about at this time in the morning, he spared a moment to weave the sigils through the air before him and mutter a few arcane words. The illusion of a tall elven gentleman-- dark hair and silver-white coat over neatly pressed black shirt and trousers-- rippled over him. Satisfied, Caleb set out on a leisurely walk through the Silken Terrace, out into the Tri-Spire district proper, orienting himself in the direction of the Zauber Spire and the Hall of Erudition at its base.

He took a long route around the manor and the no doubt rather frustrated Lieutenant inside it who would be busy rallying the whole unit and setting out after him.

It was not the first time he had ditched his detail of Righteous Brand, much to the Lieutenant’s dismay, and it would not be the last. Really there were no consequences for him except for the Lieutenant’s even more strict interpretation of the rules next time, so there wasn’t much to lose. He was thirty-three years old for gods’ sake. He had a lifetime appointment to his position, barring pissing off King Dwendal himself (pissing off the rest of the Cerberus Assembly would more likely merit an assassination attempt than a political attempt at revoking the title of an Archmage, never done before), and he would be lucky if he survived it to fifty at this rate; he was not going to live it in the shadow of his Imperial babysitters. It was a calculated risk which he was more than ready to make, middle of a war or not.

When he arrived at the Hall, proceedings were already well under way. A number of horse drawn carriages stood idle with their drivers waiting to the far side of the grounds at the right of the great hall, their occupants already inside. The grounds themselves were empty save for a few presumably students walking along the paths between academic buildings, and the crew setting up large white tents, tables and seating on the lawn by the gardens. Apparently the reception following the lecture was to be held outdoors. 

Caleb certainly wasn’t there for Professor Lywin’s lecture itself, covering her research into shaping the area effects of various evocation battle magics. But he did intend to make the most of his time in Zadash, and the professor did not make a habit of visiting Rexxentrum. He only needed a moment of her attention. Nott would take care of the rest.

It was only a matter of waving his medallion with the crest of the Cerberus at the guards stationed at the North Gate to pass without issue or even comment. Caleb swept past the open grounds toward the great hall. Unlike his previous passage through the massive hall, the arching ceiling and high columns rising stories above the marble floor, he went largely ignored by the milling students, seated at the many tables pouring over books in the middle of their studies or discussing in quiet clusters. 

The lecture hall was a little more difficult to find. However after one too many moments wasted attempting to determine its whereabouts and asking a student to point him in the right direction, he had no issue slipping inside the doors. There were plenty of unclaimed seats in the back few rows of the amphitheater, and the hundred or so attendees’ ignored his entrance, all facing forward and paying various degrees of attention to the older half-elf woman standing down on the circular dias. Illusion of the elf still in place, Caleb quietly lowered himself to the bench running along the back wall and settled in to listen until Nott arrived.

It was terribly familiar, the amphitheater lecture, the drone of the professor, the quiet sound of shuffling in seats and the hasty scribble of pen to notebooks as students took down notes. It had been a long while, felt like longer still given all that had transpired between graduation and this moment. But still, he did not feel he belonged there. He had never really taken the tradition route through the Academy anyway, not after Ikithon put himself and his other chosen few on a fast track toward usefulness for the Empire.

Caleb straightened his spine against the cold crawling at the back of his neck.

Thankfully, only a few minutes of having to listen to the woman continue on about the useful applications of area shaping effects in actual battles and lesser scraps between the Empire and Kryn Dynasty in recent years, the tell-tale intrusion of the message spell woven into his earring worked its way into the back of his mind.

Nott’s voice was quiet. “Caleb, are you inside the lecture hall yet?” 

“ _ Ja _ , back row right side, elf, dark hair white coat,” he whispered into his hand to muffle it while lifting his other to brush at the silver cuff on his own ear to activate the enchantment.

He didn’t quite see where she came from, whether in through the back doors or from somewhere already inside the room, but just a few seconds later the familiar visage of a young dark skinned halfling woman with long braids and simple tunic hopped up into the seat beside him.

Pulling the second book from his side holster beneath his coat (and beneath the illusion of the elf’s coat) he flipped to a blank page in the back and set it down in his lap. He retrieved a stick of charcoal from his spell component pouch, which ever since he’d upgraded to an enchanted pouch of holding-- far more convenient-- had really become a pouch of just about anything goes. In fact he was fairly certain the small dagger Nott had given him some years ago was still in the bottom of it somewhere, but that was beside the point.

Nott, or rather her illusionary halfling self, gave him a funny perhaps cautionary look as he pulled the book out and opened it. She’d only seen a handful of pages inside it and the past versions of the book, which had been since filled and destroyed when their contents were no longer contemporary or vital. She had never seen it open in the presence of others. Caleb rolled his eyes at her. Yes, he was aware, but it wasn’t like he was going to start flipping through state secrets in a lecture hall, and he didn’t want to waste the pages in his spellbook.

On the back page, he scrawled “ _ find the office? _ ” in quick spidery handwriting, angling it toward Nott.

Glancing down at it, her eyes flicked back up to his face as she nodded.

He began writing again. “ _ warded? _ ”

She nodded.

That was fine, he’d expected that. “ _ need anything? _ ”

She shook her head, giving him a thumbs up. Good to go. There was still a matter though…

When he began writing below his last question, longer this time, Nott raised an eyebrow at him, confused. He ignored her questioning, writing quickly while trying to maintain legibility before angling the page to her once again.

“ _Be aware, Torinn & co know I had this time scheduled for a meeting- could not be swayed so I left them_”. Then below that, “ _may come looking for me here_ ”.

Nott took a moment to decipher his handwriting, nearly a code in and of itself. As she finished reading she snorted quietly, struggling to hide a small smile. She nodded, giving another thumbs up.

Caleb closed the book, securing it at his side once more and slipping the charcoal back into the pouch at his belt. All that was left then was patience.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

There were more… people, than he expected. More people than he cared to be around. 

Caleb weaved through the crowd buzzing about the grounds of the Hall of Erudition. Far more people had come to the reception than the lecture itself. Professors, researchers and colleagues appeared alongside greater numbers of those who seemed to be students, perhaps motivated by what would otherwise be a beautiful day and the tables lined with assortments of hors d’oeuvres and drinks on a first come, first serve basis. 

He’d dropped his disguise as soon as he’d arrived at the outdoor gathering; too many people in close contact, brushing through clothing that wasn’t actually there, and too many of them inclined to have persistent magical defenses or means of detection like his own which would highlight the simple illusory spell immediately. It wasn’t worth it. So he stood on the periphery, holding a glass of water but not drinking, and waiting for the opportune moment to approach Professor Lywin and be done with this. He couldn’t see Nott, but he knew she was nearby, watching, ready for her part. But first, he had to speak with her.

He cut an unremarkable enough figure to blend in without issue in simple black coat and trousers with forest green wool tunic, a thick buffer against the chill of early winter winds. Besides, the day his face became recognizable was the day he stepped away from political service entirely.

Ditching his glass at a nearby table and steeling himself, he wove his way forward between the milling crowd as he spotted an opportunity to step in with minimal intrusion. The professor, a rail-thin half elven woman with light brown hair straight down to her waist and a perpetually surprised looking expression only just turned away from a conversation with a group of fresh faced students in academy robes, stepping away toward a table of her colleagues when Caleb glided into her path.

“Pardon me, Professor, I was hoping I might steal a moment of your time.”

Her attention turned to him sharply. “Oh, of course, certainly,” she said, looking slightly offset in a manner that led Caleb to believe the polite smile he wore wasn’t exactly cutting it. Oh well. Nott couldn’t say he didn’t at least try. “That’s of course the purpose of this gethering. I’m so sorry, I’m very good with faces but I don’t recognize you. Were you one of my students?”

“No,” he replied, taking time forming the syllable, unsure how not to sound condescending but hoping for the best. “I am afraid I never had that pleasure. I am sorry to have you at a disadvantage-- I am Caleb Widogast, of the Cerberus Assembly. I am well acquainted with your work,” he said, a truth. “It is… fascinating,” a lie.

“O- oh,” she stammered, mouth caught in an open expression of surprise as recognition flashed in her eyes. “My apologies. It is, a pleasure, Archmage,” she decided on, seemingly cautious with the words, and he couldn’t quite yet discern the truth of them. “And thank you. I am of course well acquainted with yours.”

That last line, he did not like. 

Caleb felt his smile tighten. “Yes, I heard you apply some of your hypotheses to the,” he paused, tone becoming colder, “unfortunate circumstances of Talonstadt.” Perhaps that was rude, making the woman pale like that, but it was worth it. If she was going to publicly discuss what was among his greater regrets, she ought to be open to privately discussing it with him, who unlike her, was actually there for the massacre.

She was slow to recover, smiling weakly. “Ah, indeed. I did not know you were in attendance earlier.”

“Only for a few moments toward the end,” Caleb admitted. “Certain business brought me to Zadash and I was, well, in the area as they say. Which brings me what I hoped to discuss with you, which admittedly has little to do with your research,” he said, hurrying along the point. He’d spent enough time leveraging his position.

“Of course, of course,” she hurried, “how can I be of assistance, Archmage?”

He really wished she would stop saying that. He caught a few curious looks from the corner of his eye.

He folded his hands before him, ignoring the attention, ignoring what felt like the swarming crowd though he was sure it wasn’t moving that much. Caleb took a breath, studying her face and posture carefully as he proceeded. “I was wondering as to whether you have recently spoken with Lord Ver’sys.”

She blinked at him a few times, expression shifting into something more certain as neither it nor her words were forthcoming. “I’m sorry Archmage, I’m not familiar with that person. Forgive me.” 

“Curious.” That, he hadn’t expected. At least, not to deny familiarity outright.

“Perhaps though if you explained who this person was I would be in a position to better answer what questions you might have?”

“Lord Quintus Ver’sys? His house holds proprietorship over the Dunrath Mines-- you are unfamiliar with him?” Caleb asked, raising an interested eyebrow. If there was the ghost of a very dubious smirk at the corners of his mouth, so be it. “Perhaps you have spoken with him in connection to his exports to Fort Umberloch.”

Her expression steeled itself, forcing certainty where Caleb did not think there was any. “I’m terribly sorry, Archmage. You must have heard mistakenly. I’m not familiar with this Lord, though some of my research components have come from the Dunrath Mines, but I don’t know of any of their other exports or business.”

Slowly, Caleb revised his opinion of the professor. She was not so incompetent. Though certainly not adept. His ultimate certainty was not swayed. “I see,” he said, nodding politely.

“Indeed.”

“Then it seems I have no further questions. Thank you again for your time,” he said, taking a step back, eyes locked on her the whole way, “and congratulations on your recent publication.”

“Thank you kindly, Archmage. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much help. Best of luck in your own endeavours,” she said, smiling warmly, though it did not reach her eyes.

Caleb turned and the few nearby observers moved out of his path, eyes following him. He made it to the outer edges of the gathering, where the gardens began in earnest, hedge rows and cobblestone paths meandering artfully between trees and flowering landscaping. When he did glance back, hovering again at the periphery, the woman’s body language suggested he’d done exactly what he’d hoped to accomplish. She was rattled, shoulders tight and eyes darting around the gathering.

That was good. Hopefully her next step would be-

“Archmage Widogast!”

Caleb jerked around in the direction of the call, tensing visibly, eyes searching. By every damned soul in every damned hell…

Headmaster Occuram hobbled at a rapid pace across the grass, a bright grin on his crinkled face. And at his heels, looking partly just as surprised as Caleb felt, one certain half-orc and an ostentatiously dressed purple tiefling.

He must have done something to deserve this ambush. Angered the gods. 

But he schooled his expression quickly, righting his posture as he turned to face the three’s approach. The Headmaster was adept at pushing through a crowd of taller individuals it seemed, poking end of his cane first, and thus made a path far too easily for the other two to follow.

“Archmage Widogast,” the elderly gnome repeated as he drew nearer, a little breathless this time, and  _ götter verdammt _ he really wished people would stop saying that out loud. It was drawing looks.

Caleb opened his mouth to return a polite greeting, but the Headmaster cut him off, launching right into it. “You didn’t  _ tell me _ you would be attending Lywin’s reception,” he complained good naturedly, “you should have told me! Oh, and were you at the lecture? Goodness, I’m sure Lywin would have loved to speak with you. You know,” he said, shaking his stick at Caleb, his expression indicating he thought what he said next would be amusing, “some of her most recent research focuses on an area you’d be quite familiar with.”

Caleb flinched, uncomfortable, couldn’t stop himself. He cursed internally, while smiling tightly. “I am aware,” he said quietly. “And no, unfortunately I did not attend the lecture.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you the type to attend a social function like this,” the half-orc, Fjord he reminded himself, said. 

Caleb snapped his attention to the man, standing back a few steps. And, oh. Did he also have broader shoulders than he recalled? More likely he just hadn’t paid attention the first time, though now Fjord seemed to have updated his wardrobe with the local fashion, black leather tunic pressed with familiar leaf and vine motif at the belt and collar pulling nicely across his shoulders and hugging a trim waistline. Caleb’s eyes returned back to the man’s face and there was an intrigued smile playing over his lips, golden eyes bright and far too knowing and, and, and  _ verdammt noch mal  _ he’d let too long pass before responding.

Caleb immediately forced his eyes away to the ground, stopped himself from overthinking that smile, stopped himself from saying anything too defensive before forcing himself to look back up and meet the man’s gaze straight on. He sucked in a breath. “Social function?  _ Nein _ , this is the post-lecture reception for a respected academic in our field. It is, ah, pedagogical in nature.” He really wished Fjord would stop looking at him like that, with what felt like an excessive amount of eye contact. 

Fjord glanced around, not convinced if the slight cock of his head and lift of his brow was anything to go by. Caleb exhaled, shifting his weight where he stood slightly before he could catch himself, hoping very hard that the warmth he felt across his face was not a flush. “But you are partly correct,” he said, trying to keep his volume up. “A matter of government on behalf on the Cerberus brought me here, but with that matter concluded I was just on my way out.”

He so very badly wanted to be on his way out. 

“Hm, shame,” the purple one--  _ Mollymauk _ , Nott’s voice rang in his memory, trying to get him to use people’s names-- hummed, smiling slyly, “having to run business errands on a beautiful day like today.”

“Ah, I suppose.”

“Surely you work too hard, Archmage,” Mollymauk all but purred. He shifted forward a half step. Caleb shifted back. 

He swallowed, felt his jaw tighten, smile dropping just a little. This entire interaction had caught him entirely off guard. He felt a little like Fjord looked in that moment, shooting the tiefling a blatant warning look. “Perhaps,” he deadpanned, incapable of meeting Mollymauk’s red eyes and so staring over his shoulder instead. He hoped it came off as cold disinterest, though he didn’t care so much if it came off as something a little more threatening.

Nott warned him that the tiefling was like this, with most everyone it seemed. Still, Caleb was not prepared, not right now, in a crowd of people. He wished very much that Nott was not working right now so she might come and extricate him from this terrible mess.

“Yes, well,” the Headmaster said with a wave, utterly incapable of picking up on the three very different emotions radiating from the people he stood in conversation with. “The business of the Crown never stops I’m afraid,” he chuckled. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Fjord agreed readily, clearing his throat. He looked what could have been apologetic. Caleb felt warm under his collar. If he picked up on his discomfort, that only made it worse. He prayed to whatever gods would still take his prayers that it did not show. “We were just being given a tour of the Hall, actually,” he began in an entirely different direction. “Seems like work never stops here,” he observed, something like polite admiration in his tone.

Caleb seized the opportunity to shift the direction of the conversation, and schooled his expression into something further from the genuine surprise he felt at those words and closer to causal interest. “Oh? And, how does that happen?”

“Well, funny story, that,” Fjord laughed. He had a very… kind, look to him in that moment, Caleb thought a little oddly. Perhaps simply because they were on the same page when it came to wishing to backtrack from the awkward angle the conversation had taken. But if this was a mercy on Fjord’s part, it meant Caleb ws failing terribly, and it meant it was a favor, and Caleb was not sure which of those were worse.

Fjord launched into the story wholeheartedly, Caleb smiling faintly and nodding along when appropriate and trying to stop overthinking and rethinking things seconds passed and get out of his head because he  _ knew _ , he knew, Astrid told him, Wulf told him, Nott told him, that was were social nuances went to die. 

Slowly though, slowly, he allowed himself to actually listen as Fjord explained how in a rather unpredictable turn of events, he and Mollymauk had encountered the Headmaster in the lobby of the Pillow Trove, the venue of some dinner the mage was attending, while Mollymauk was telling fortunes with his tarot cards for interested guests-- an age old pastime, Mollymauk interrupted the story to reassure them. An excellent way to meet new and interesting people, he explained. As the story resumed, Caleb found himself actually interested in how it played out, smile coming a little more naturally. Fjord was charismatic if nothing else. Caleb listened intently as he explained the conflict which arose between the old gnome and the busking tiefling in the form of a heated debate about what qualified as “real” magic, which was put to the test by Molly’s ultimately rather accurate reading of the Headmaster’s cards, much to the old gnome’s delight.

The Headmaster made sure to interject at this part, conveying that clearly. In the end, upon learning of Mollymauk and his friends being  _ dignitaries  _ of the Clovis Concord, travelled all the way from Nicodranas-- Caleb’s smile here became a cautious one, though Fjord’s subtle gesture reassured him that they knew the story they were sticking to-- the Headmaster was eager to invite them to the Hall of Erudition to show them just a few of the wonders the city had to offer.

“Now, you,” Occuram said as though trying to remember, pointing with his cane toward Mollymauk, “you wanted to see the golden fountains gifted by the Marquesian ambassador,” to which Mollymauk nodded eagerly.

“Oh very much so,” he agreed, smiling brightly through pointed teeth.

“And you,” the Headmaster pointed to Fjord, “were curious about the Hanging Gardens.”

“From the way you described them, in all my time in the Menagerie Coast, I’ve never seen such a thing,” Fjord agreed, drawling pleasantly.

“It is a curious sight, that is certain,” Caleb said quietly, quickly looking back to the Headmaster to avoid the sure smile Fjord sent his way.

“Yes, yes,” Occuram nodded. “Well, if we want to see the fountains before the shadow of the Zauber Spire falls over them, we had best get going. And-” a sudden thought dawned on the gnome’s wrinkled face- “oh, Archmage, you should show Mr. Fjord the Hanging Gardens yourself!” he crowed excitedly.

“Ah- I, I was-” Caleb stammered, too slow to get ahead of the eager suggestion.

“I wouldn’t want to impose or anyth-” Fjord held a hand up as if to slow the Headmaster down, but the old gnome overpowered them both.

“After all,” he continued, wagging a finger at Caleb, “wasn’t it your thesis on the transmutative effects of the elemental rifts under Draconia which laid the groundwork for their conception?”

“Really? Is that true?” Fjord asked, genuinely curious it seemed even as Caleb felt himself grow warm, glancing away at the grass.

“I, well, that was, that was a while ago,” Caleb managed to get out, tripping over himself before forcing himself to return Fjord’s look. “And really it was only foundational theory,” he tried to explain away. “I know little of the garden’s actual design.”

“Ah, I see,” Fjord inclined his head politely. “Well I certainly wouldn’t want to impose anyway, we’ve already held you up enough-”

“Oh nonsense, nonsense,” Occuram waved Fjord’s concerns away, though Fjord wasn’t even speaking to him, garnering an affronted look from Caleb. “Surely the Archmage can spare a few moments away from his work on such a lovely day as this to show  _ the emissary of the Menagerie Coast _ a little bit of the Hall’s grounds.” He gave a pointed look at Caleb, raising a bushy white eyebrow. As if Caleb didn’t know who they were, or at least pretended to be. As if Caleb hadn’t already met them, and was in fact the reason they were in this city. As if… gods above, the Headmaster was a piece of work.

He froze for far too long, heart in his throat, something darker and more frustrated than his mere social discomfort burning in his chest. It was only long years of painful training that allowed him to keep his composure through it. But what motivated him to finally speak up was not his training; nor was it the pointed look of the Headmaster, eager to put on a good show of the Hall for those he believed to be southern dignitaries; nor the keenly interested look Mollymauk sent Fjord’s way, though the half-orc was not looking at the tiefling, staring at Caleb far too intently; nor was it even the dare-he-say hopeful expression in Fjord’s eyes and the tilt of his smile. Rather, it was the sunlight glinting off the plate armor of eight silver and crimson clad Righteous Brand soldiers marching through the open gates of the grounds of the Hall of Erudition, one very large copper dragonborn at their head.

_ Scheisse  _ he must have offended the divines.

“Ah, alright,” he relented, eyes following the line that the soldiers cut across the path up to the great hall. He was not necessarily discreet in how he shifted a pace around Fjord’s other side to keep the most dense group of people between him and the soldiers’ line of sight.

Fjord seemed to catch where he was looking and turned back to look at him, head cocked curious to the side, though he didn’t voice the plain question there.

Caleb cleared his throat, and re-affixed a polite soft smile. “I am sure I can spare a few moments to show you the gardens.”

The beaming smile Fjord returned was enough to send a blush creeping across his face, he was sure. He swallowed dryly, glancing down, looking away over his shoulder at the rest of the gathering, looking anywhere away because he was sure he wanted to die in that moment, more sure than ever. He had to do better. He had to- had to-

“I would be, most obliged, Archmage,” Fjord drawled, bowing his head slightly, and when he glanced back up at Caleb through his eyelashes, eyes flashing brightly, that smile was almost as brazen as the tiefling’s.

Caleb’s stomach swooped.

What in the hells was even happening here.


	6. intrigue

Fjord wouldn’t admit to staring. 

But he’d seen Widogast through the crowd quite a few minutes before Headmaster Occuram had, standing still on the periphery of the event, eyes tracking something-- someone-- through the movement of bodies around tables and tents. He’d looked transfixed, not unlike the sea eagles that perched for long hours in the rigging watching the movement of schools of fish until the moment it dove toward the water level. In all Fjord’s years on the ocean, he’d never seen one of the raptors come up talons empty.

Widogast was really no different. He’d seen something, his opening, and moved quickly, gliding through the crowd until he came to a stop behind a woman just as she turned, already in place in her path as she was left to re-orient herself.

The thought of being the Archmage’s quarry, the subject of that pointed of an observation, made both Fjord’s stomach loop and his fight-or-flight senses kick in. That was ridiculous though. That shouldn’t be a game of cat and mouse that he wanted to play.

He hadn’t been able to hear what Widgoast said, not through the chatter of the crowd and the Headmasters excited rambling about something or other as Molly paid much more attention than he did, but it was clear how the cards were stacked from watching the two people’s body language and expressions alone. The woman had been friendly at first, or at least seemed to try to be, which was probably a mistake given how Widogast wasted no time with that sharp knowing smile, diving right in for the kill. The woman was stumbling over herself almost immediately, eyes looking anywhere but his. There was something to it, watching the man work. Something darkly enjoyable in his precision, the authority he commanded. And Fjord was rooting for him. He really was. There had been a moment toward the end of their very brief conversation that the woman’s expression went very intentionally neutral, a mask going up, but Widogast just looked.... pleased. Like it was just what he expected.

When he did abruptly end the conversation-- if an ambush could be called that-- Widogast left with just as much single-minded intent as he descended with. There was no question who had come out on top.

But for all that precision, Widogast surely hadn’t expected their arrival. He’d looked surprised for just the briefest second before recovering. He’d dealt with the Headmaster’s excited rambling with polite disinterest, met Molly’s forwardness with as respectable a dismissal as he probably could have, and he seemed mildly interested at least in the story of how they came to be there, but when Fjord pushed-- like he knew he shouldn’t, but really couldn’t help himself-- he’d been  _ flustered _ , in a way he couldn’t have imagined just moments prior. And there was that ridiculous voice in the back of his head again--  _ not a game of cat and mouse he should want to play _ .

It began to dawn on Fjord that he  _ should  _ have felt like he was in over his head. He was, without a doubt. But he was enjoying it immensely.

And now,  _ now _ , he was following the man around the low rows of the hedges and through towering old trees, away from the crowd and into the beautiful seclusion of the garden like a scene right out of one of Jester’s trashy romance novels that she sometimes read aloud. Fjord wasn’t sure what was going on, nor why Widogast seemed so keen on avoiding his own bodyguards, but Fjord was more than willing to go with it.

Really, what was the worst that could happen. (Probably a painful death, as always, but that didn’t seem all that likely, or if likely, at least worth it.)

As Widogast cast a look behind him at the reception disappearing around the corner of the great hall, Fjord stepped up beside him.  “So, government business, huh?”

His head swiveled to Fjord. “Correct.”

Fjord smiled wryly, not sure if he’d get an answer. “What exactly does that entail, “government business”?” he asked, keeping his tone light, casual.

Widogast continued forward, leading them down a cobblestone path alongside a shallow pond speckled with water lilies and lined with cattails and a willow or two. He looked sideways up and down at Fjord for a moment, that same keen interest that made Fjord’s breath stutter in his lungs. “You are government business, Captain,” he said, halfway to a smirk. He seemed to think better of it though, looking forward again and dropping it.

“Sure,” Fjord laughed, ignoring the way he looked at him, ignoring the was he said  _ captain _ , like there was some sort of challenge to be had. Fjord pushed back, a small smile clinging to his lips. “Do you often take your government business on walks through the park?”

“No, now that you mention it,” Widogast brushed him off smoothly, accent curling carefully around every word. “You would be the first.” He realized that if he wanted to see that flush creep across the man’s face again, he would have to try harder than that. Cut out the crowd, and he was far more in his element.

“Well, I’m honored. Though I doubt you were here on my account.” He chuckled. “I sure wouldn’t hang around these types on my account, or for just about any matter of business really.”

He huffed in amusement. “These types?” There was that smirk again, though this time it stayed. “Do be careful, I believe I just might be among them.” 

“Now, that’s not quite what I meant.”

“Then speak what you mean, Fjord.” That was only the second time he heard the man say his name, he was certain of it. And he was sure now, Widogast was enjoying this. 

“Are we on a first name basis now?” he asked with a matching grin as they continued down the path shaded by old oak trees.

“Do you have a last one?”

Fjord chuckled, little more than an audible exhale. He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, I walked into that one.” The other man’s smile was small, but it was the most genuine he had seen yet.

“Indeed you did,” he agreed. He hesitated though, eyes on the ground before them as they walked. “Though if you have a title you prefer, of course I will respect that.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Fjord shrugged, brushing it off. “Fjord’s fine.” Actually, for the few times the other man had said it, Fjord found he quite prefered it. “I’ll admit though, I’ve been having a difficult time figuring out what to call you. You’re a man of many titles.”

He nodded, humming a note of understanding. “ _ Ja _ ,” he sighed, “unfortunately.” Silence elapsed between them as Widogast seemed to mull that one over, biting the inside of his cheek. “I have never been offended,” he began slowly, “by being called my name. It is a good name, I think. There is of course a time and place in which that is appropriate.”

“Of course,” Fjord agreed readily.

“Of course.”

“But, for example, right now…”

“You may call me Caleb.  _ Das ist nur fair _ .”

Fjord nodded, though Widogast-  _ Caleb _ , wasn’t looking at him. He lead them through a series of arches over an open pavilion between two smaller buildings. They were somewhere on the edge of the campus now, which wasn’t all that large, though Fjord hadn’t paid so much attention to where they’d gone exactly. Past that was a high wall that seemed to encompass the entire grounds, lined by a row of younger trees with a less travelled gravel path between them. That took a gentle right turn around the farthest building, which seemed to be the direction Caleb was taking them, but he couldn’t see what continued behind it.

“If I might return to my original question, though,” Caleb said, turning to face him. “What did you mean by “these types”? I am not offended,” he assured. “Only curious.”

“You curious much?”

“ _ Ja _ , often,” he said seriously.

“Huh,” Fjord laughed, smiling easily. “Only like Headmaster Occuram, I suppose,” he answered honestly. “A little naive, maybe a little full of themselves.”

Caleb grinned sharply. “Ah, and am I a member of that group, in your opinion Fjord?” He looked at him either like this was some sort of test, and he was rather interested in the answer.

“Like I said, it was not my intention to group all you magic types together,” Fjord said after clearing his throat, a little sheepish. “Though if you must know, no, you certainly don’t strike me as a naive man.” Caleb seemed satisfied at that, making a considerate sound as he faced forward still, but Fjord couldn’t help it. “But of course I’ve yet to determine if you’re just full of shit.”

Caleb laughed out loud, a real laugh, ringing crisp and clear through the air. He took a moment struggling to compose himself, his face turned away. “Ah,  _ danke _ , thank you for your honesty,” he said, still grinning.

“If I may impose once more, Caleb,” Fjord tried out the name, liking the feel of it. Caleb turned, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind his ear as she looked on expectantly. The small smile the man wore came so much easier now. Fjord much prefered this. While he recognized it could have been the Archmage’s ploy all along to get his guard down or get something over him when it came time to negotiate, this felt more natural, and far less volatile than their previous exchange. And he was very glad for it. “Where are you from? Neither I nor my my compatriots were quite able to place your accent. Or what language you keep speaking, for that matter.”

He looked a little surprised, though not out off in the least. “What, you don’t encounter many Zemnians on the Lucidean Ocean?” 

Fjord shook his head. “No. It’s possible I’ve crossed paths with a few of your countrymen, but none I can put a face or name to.”

“Well, I don’t blame us. The Zemni Fields are landlocked. And-” he glanced upward at the bright blue sky- “we burn easily in the sun,” he remarked, a bit of dry humor.

“Huh.” Fjord was going to respond with something a little more clever, he was sure of it, a little distracted in the moment by studying Caleb’s profile and fair complexion and maybe the faint spray of light freckles over his cheekbones out of the corner of his eye. But then they turned the corner and the trees cleared and before them sprawled a small stone courtyard and- “Oh.”

Fjord gaped up at the stone islands floating at staggered heights, the ground below them equally staggered rough hewn reddish stone which made it appear that the thick slabs of varying widths and sizes levitated above where they’d been pulled right out of the ground. They varied in size, the smallest about the size of a rowboat and the largest easily as big as a ship’s cabin. Thick green curtains of ivy and other vines dripped over the edges of each, and from the highest island, a stream of water poured over the edge onto the next highest and the next highest and so forth until the water was a faint trickle dispersing into a mist halfway to hitting the ground.

Caleb came to a stop a step ahead of him, hands in his coat pockets as he also took a moment to take in the sight before them. “The Hanging Gardens,” he said quietly. He turned halfway around, watching Fjord take them in with a slight tilt of his head and gentle smile. “Perhaps a little misleading in their name. They, ah, levitate.”

Fjord laughed, nodding in agreement. “They sure fuckin’ do, don’t they.” He sucked in a deep breath, clearing his throat. “That is- yep- that certainly is somethin’.”

A long moment of silence elapsed before Caleb said anything, eyeing Fjord and his open amazement with peculiar look behind his eyes. The look of someone trying to solve a puzzle. 

“Yes,” he breathed out, a light hum. “Something.” 

Fjord wasn’t sure what that meant, but the very fact that Wi-  _ Caleb  _ had decided there was some sort of puzzle here  _ worth solving _ probably wouldn’t bode well for him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb replayed the exchange in his head over and over, eyes fixed on the intricate stained glass windows of the manor’s dining room, but not paying much attention. Beauregard had asked him how his conversation with the Professor went.  _ Fine, yes, good, _ was all he articulated. Still she was standing there at the end of the table, waiting for him to say something further. And still his mind drifted back to the half-orc sea captain with the disarming smile and either a gambler’s tendency to push his luck or an uncanny sense of just how far his charm could carry him. 

_ Dangerous _ , his voice of caution whispered in the back of his mind.  _ He’s better at this than you thought. _

His voice of caution sounded a great deal like Astrid. Or at least, how he remembered her sounding. He didn’t like how frequently-- at least it felt frequent, because it happened at all-- his thoughts returned to her of late. He didn’t like that his dreams returned to their old master of late either. He didn’t like a lot of things of late.  _ For as much as you fixate on what you can control, you really think you could let go of what you  _ couldn’t _? Failure.  _ It was too easy to remember his old master’s tone, and he was sure that if he hadn’t said those words exactly, he’d said something like them. He could see him sneering down at him. It made him almost flinch.

The wine tasted sour now in the back of his mouth.

“Um, and?” 

He blinked, seeing the delicate patterns in the grain of the wooden table top for the first time since he’d been looking at it. Now Beauregard’s voice. Though she, thankfully, wasn’t yet berating him from within his own thoughts. Only in person. 

That thought made the corners of his mouth twitch, a fleeting smirk at his own poor sense of humor, and if the monk’s shifting was anything to go by, it annerved her terribly. Flicking his eyes up at here, she looked back like she didn’t expect him to need further prompting. She fiddled with her hand wraps impatiently. 

“She is spooked,” Caleb said. “She denied everything as soon as I breached the topic.”

She nodded. “Good. Then maybe Nott’s got somethin to work with.”

Caleb hummed his agreement, fingers still drumming against the armrest of his chair, causing him to frown down at his hand. When had he started doing that? He stopped, folding his hands in his lap. “So it would seem, as she has not yet returned.” He let his head fall back against the rest, eyes trailing along the wooden beams running the length of the ceiling.

“Beauregard.”

He wasn’t looking, but he could feel her narrowing her eyes at him. “Yeah?” she asked slowly.

“What do you think of the Nicodranas crew?” He kept his tone deceptively uninterested.

Another beat of silence. “Are you asking for my opinion?”

He sighed, motioning for her to sit. If this was going to be a conversation, she might as well meet him at eye level. She pulled a chair out, two down from where he sat at the head of the long mahogany table.

“You have read the same reports that I have. I am asking for your conclusions based on your observations and experience.” She gave him a funny look. “Yes I am asking for your opinion.”

“Uh, right.” She looked down at the table for a long moment, brow furrowed. 

Caleb allowed her the time. He would prefer her best constructed answer anyway, and understood the desire to collect one’s thoughts. He breathed deeply, a measured, meditative pace. Exhaling, Caleb let his eyes drift back over to the stained glass, shards of purple hues and blue tones and thin slivers of golden yellow. The woodwork arched delicately around it, the geometric motif a refreshing substitute for the city’s frequent floral designs. He pondered over the architecture, over the golden glass, over its striking similarity to the muted color of this sea captain’s eyes.

“I think,” Beauregard began, and Caleb listened as he traced concentric geometric shapes with his eyes over the lead inlay between colored glass plates in the window. “They don’t know what they’re doing here. And if they had expectations, they don’t any more.” He saw her look up at him in the corner of his eye. “I think they’re just looking to make the best of it.”

That last part piqued his interest. “You think they are opportunists?”

She breathed in, shrugging to half concede the point. “Not quite, no. More like… they came in with a set of goals, I’m sure. But they don’t seem to have a very strict hierarchy or respect for authority,” she said, which was obvious, “so they’ll probably be flexible, and always interested in what’s best for them and their own.”

Caleb drew in another breath, exhaling as he considered her words and what she meant, regardless of whether he agreed. “So you think they can be bought.”

“No, not at all actually.” Of that, she sounded most confident yet. He turned his attention back to her, studying her face.

“How so?”

“There’s a funny sort of loyalty between people like that. And for as much as wealth and possessions drives what they do, being thieves and criminals and all, I think money’s one of the last things they care about.”

Inhale. Exhale. He thought back to the looks between Fjord and the blue one, Jester, during their first meeting. Of the silent communication in expressions and glances, the time and care that sort of language took to develop. Inhale. He thought of the caution Fjord encouraged, the rebuke, in his sharper looks at Mollymauk during their first meeting and as they stood on the edge of the gardens. Exhale. Thought of the open, simple wonder in Fjord’s face as he gazed up at the Hanging Gardens. Inhale.

He really didn’t understand them. For all he spent the evening thinking it over, he truly did not understand. And that made for something he could not control. And that,  _ that _ , was where his issue lie. He was certain of it.

“And there we are. That is the problem at which I continue to arrive,” he sighed, his hand settling around the delicate stem of his wine glass. Beauregard waited for him to finish that thought, a quiet question in the line of her mouth. “I do not understand their motivations.”

“Huh.” The monk sat in silence for a moment longer, elbows propped on the table as she rested her chin against her knuckles. “Well, what do  _ you  _ think of them?”

“Hm.” He sipped at the bitter wine, spinning the stem of it around and around in his fingers as he pulled it away from his lips. “I do not know,” he answered honestly. “I like him.”

There was a beat of silence from Beauregard, then, “Who?”

“Their captain. Fjord. I like him,” he repeated simply.

There was a longer silence, this time making him sit up a little straighter, reconsidering his intent at honest discussion with the monk as he set the crystal glass back down on the table. The woman was staring at him, head at an interesting tilt, jaw loose. 

“ _ Was?  _ What is wrong?” He tried not to sound defensive. It helped when he was genuinely confused.

“You don’t like anyone,” Beauregard observed. 

“I am aware, that is generally true,” he said, frowning. “Though not always- I am quite fond of Nott. But that is beside the point; it is concerning.”

“Okay,” she drew out slowly, exhaling heavily, lacing her fingers together. “I’ve got two thoughts. One, Nott’s a fucking goblin. And two, concerning that you don’t like anyone? Or concerning that you like the pirate.”

“What is that supposed to mean, that Nott is a goblin?” Caleb asked, not sure if he should be offended on her behalf, or himself for that matter. “Of course she is a goblin, what does that matter?”

“All I’m saying is that she isn’t a great point of comparison,” Beauregard explained, crossing her arms as she checked her hip against his desk. “An outlier.”

“I do not see why it matters that Nott is a goblin,” Caleb insisted, even if perhaps he began to understand her point. 

She sighed. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just weird is all.”

Caleb shrugged, unconcerned with what the monk thought. He tilted his head back again, folding his hands together. “ _ Ist mir egal _ , I do not care.”

“When have you ever,” Beauregard muttered.

Caleb glared at her darkly until she dropped her gaze down to the table. “Back to your second thought.”

“Right. Concerning that you like the pirate captain.”

“Yes. That.”

“Have you considered that you have poor taste in people? Which takes me back to the thing about Nott, even as lovely as she is,” she made sure to amend, “being a literal fucking gremlin creature.”

He rolled his eyes. He thought back to all the people he’d ever had a fond thought for, Nott, Astrid again, Eodwulf, Beauregard even, and even Ikithon once very long ago when he was young and misguided and naive and looking for someone to reassure him he had a purpose, though just recalling that now made him swallow down the disgust creeping up his throat. None of them demonstrated a particularly good selection on his part. Caduceus came closer, but Caleb still wasn’t sure how he felt about him at times. Unnerving. Impossible to know what he knew or was thinking and how he knew it. “A similar thought has occured to me,  _ ja _ ,” he agreed quietly. “But I tolerate you, do I not?” He couldn’t help the sharp smirk, somewhere between self-satisfied and self-degrading, that curled at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you?” she asked, grinning. “I wouldn’t have guessed, not with all your drama I have to put up with.”

“Drama? Beauregard, you know me better. I do not do, drama.” He hid his grin in the lip of his wine glass.

“Sure, sure,” she humored him. “On a more serious note though. What exactly do you mean, you like him?”

He sighed, any trace of a smile slipping away. As if he hadn’t asked himself that very question; as if he hadn’t mulled over it long and hard through nearly three glasses of wine. Yet he still didn’t have an answer he was satisfied with. Caleb traced his finger lightly over the rim of the glass, an excuse to avoid meeting her eyes. “I do not know.” This sudden honesty with her was an interesting move on his own part, he would admit, though he couldn’t promise he’d make the same decision entirely sober.

She exhaled heavily. “Are you giving it much weight?” He was grateful she did not ask the next most obvious, yet equally difficult to answer question,  _ why _ . Though he knew the question must have occurred to her. A small mercy then.

“No,” he said immediately. That question was a far easier one. “It changes nothing.”

She made a thoughtful sound at that, though made no effort to articulate it in any greater detail. Glowering down at the dark liquid settled in the bottom of his glass, Caleb ran his tongue over his teeth. No. He didn’t give it much weight. Not any, really. And he refused to read into it. This was merely an very base judgement, going off little more than instinct and a slightly amended first impression.

“Then why are you brooding over it?”

Caleb snorted at that. “I am not brooding.” Beauregard rolled her eyes  _ very  _ loudly, between her highly dubious expression and the cross of her arms as she leaned back precariously in her chair. He dragged his eyes back up at her, only glaring a little. Suddenly he became very self-conscious of the black robes and the dimly lit room and the glass of red wine and the dark expression he’d been wearing. Straightening in his seat, he pushed the glass away and summoned Frumpkin to his lap. “I am not,” he lied. 

“Right. Sure,” she said sarcastically, eyeing the familiar. “Just like you don’t do drama.”

“Correct.”

“I hope you never get all that cat hair off,” she cursed.

Caleb didn’t stop running his fingers through the bengal’s coat. Sighing, he sent the woman down the table from him a bored look. “The thing about that is, Beauregard-” he snapped his fingers and the cat vanished, every trace of fur along with it- “he goes away exactly when I want him to.”

She looked unimpressed.

“Unlike certain monks.”

She sighed, slumping back against the high back of her chair. “Do you want me to go?”

He stared at the wood grain. Silent, he rubbed a hand over his jaw, wincing at the rough scrape of stubble. 

“Widogast.” She sounded more exasperated than anything.

He wanted to snap Frumpkin back. That’s what he wanted.

“Caleb.” 

He looked up from the gleaming table top, exhaling deeply. Begrudgingly, oh so begrudgingly, he leaned forward and pushed the uncorked wine bottle across the table toward her to rest within arms reach, dark glass reflecting the flickering low light.

“I’m terrible company, I know.” She raised a pierced eyebrow at him. “But you are worse, and this is expensive.”

“Sold.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Many hours later, after Beauregard had left and Caleb was very nearly sober though just enough not to finally work himself up to returning to the Cerberus paperwork and reports for the Crown which were a dreadful tax on time and energy yet which called for his attention desperately, there was a rattle at the window of his study. The sharp clicking of claws against glass.

Caleb set his quill aside in the ink tray, straightening his spine after being hunched over his desk for so long, writing by the light of the fire. Slowly, he rose to his feet and crossed the carpet. The books since relocated after Nott’s frequent entry made it inconvenient, it was only the matter of the brief wave of his hand to dismiss the alarm spell and unlock the window. Pushing it open, Nott swung inside.

Closing it once more, Caleb turned away from the window. “It has been some time,” Caleb remarked, the sun having set far too many hours ago. “I presume it was well spent?”

“Very,” Nott said, confident.

“ _ Gut _ ,” he said. “Sit,” motioning to the chair pulled up beside his desk, waiting for her. Caleb returned to his own seat, slowly and methodically setting the letters he was nearly through writing aside, face down, the sealing wax and candle next in its place, the ink after, and so forth. Unbuckling the holster to his side, he pulled out the book and set it down before him.

Nott glanced at it, curious, but also like it might explode in her face like one of her alchemical concoctions. He turned it open to a page in the middle of the book, half covered in spidery lines and letters of black ink. 

“Was it as we expected?” 

Nott took a deep breath, fidgeting in her seat. “Yes,” she said, hesitating, “and no. She met with someone, in the East Outersteads. Someone very good at hiding their face, though it was probably an illusion anyway.”

Caleb considered that for a moment, dipping his quill in the inkwell and tapping it lightly against the side. He flicked his eyes back up at her, studying her expression intently.

“Explain, from the beginning.” This, he had patience for. “Do not spare me any details.”


	7. reminders of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fic earns its rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this is a week later than I would've liked. That's partly because this is twice as long as I would've liked, but these sections felt best together in once chapter. Thank you all who have commented so very much, they really do have the ability to make my day, as small as they might seem, and they're hella motivating to continue writing. <3

_He’s floating. Nothing quite tangible, but Fjord feels every bit of it. Dry and soft, sheets dripping off him like water. Weight suspended. A flicker of warmth curling pleasantly in his belly and rolling, growing, tingling up his spine and over his skin._

_As his world solidifies through the fog, he’s lying chest down on a bed, soft furs brushing against bare skin. The air is warm and light, a comfortable blanket without the suffocating effect of one. Through it someone else moves behind him, over him, cool fingers ghosting down his spine, sliding over the curve of smooth muscle as they brush down his sides, tracing leisurely patterns across his skin. Even as they drag over his back, leaving a smouldering trail that he wants to chase after, there is a barely there quality to their movement that he can’t quite place, that isn’t quite concrete. And so he melts into the sensation, letting it wash over him instead._

_Delicate hands traced patterns and sigils up the slope of his back, dragging up the nape of his neck. A dull ripple of pleasure drifted over him, anticipation curling in his belly. He wanted to focus on the sensation, but it remained tantalizingly distant from him, receding just when he sought after it. Clever fingers trailed down his sides, fingers digging in harder over the crest of his hips, and Fjord moaned._

_In some small place in his head, quiet and distant from himself like watching everything through a thick roiling fog, Fjord knows he’s dreaming._

_That same small place didn’t have the mind to care._

_Fjord wanted._

_Weight finally pressed against his back, the man’s chest leaning over him as fingernails dragged pleasurably up his sides with a sharp heat that had him half canting his hips into the mattress. There was a low amused chuckle over his shoulder, lips pressing trailing kisses from between his shoulder blades up the side of his neck, broken only by teeth nipping sharply at soft skin. The gentle curl of warmth in his gut intensified into something more needy, and Fjord tried to push himself back into the solid form hovering over top of him, but every time he did it retreated into the pleasant haze that hung all around before slowly coming back with more teasing strokes and scraping teeth that had him groaning and fisting his hands in the sheets. It wasn’t enough._

_Hot breath huffed against him, teasing fingers tracing more lightly now back down his spine. Frustrated, arching his back Fjord tried to push his hips back, chased after the fleeting touches that left his skin shivering and muscles quaking, but it was gone too soon, and he was standing alone._

_Standing now, fingers clutching uselessly against the wall he leaned into. Panting lightly, he pressed his forehead against the cool smooth surface, doing nothing to suppress the warm thread that tugged throughout his core along the path those fingers burned._

_And for a moment, there was nothing. Nothing but the warmth he couldn’t chase and his own breathing._

_Without warning those hands were on him again, gripping his hips tightly and pushing him hard into the wall, the solid plane of his torso crowding up close behind him until the man’s chest was flush with Fjord’s back. He gasped an exhale, panting and rolling his hips backward. He wanted this, wanted anything, wanted something. Those same nipping, biting teeth returned to scrape punishingly over the curve of his shoulder, lips curling into a sharp smile against his quivering flesh as those fingers dug into his hips, preventing Fjord’s hips from canting too far into the friction he very badly wanted. He bit back a groan of frustration, but that only merited a quiet laugh, rich and familiar, from his tormentor._

_One hand slid forward to wrap around his waist, Fjord’s muscles jumping at the too-gentle pass of fingertips over his lower belly, nails scratching faint lines over heated flesh. It was impossible to suppress the whine that pulled its way from Fjord’s throat as that hand dipped lower down his thigh before dragging up over the hard planes of his abdomen and chest, ignoring where he wanted friction most._

_Low voice humming his approval, those lips pressed feather-light kisses up the nape of Fjord’s neck to where he nibbled lightly at the sensitive place just below Fjord’s ear. Fjord gasped, and felt the man grin in response, whispering something but nothing Fjord could follow in that lilting accent before biting and sucking teasingly at his pulse as that hand sliding too slowly up his chest came to rest at the column of Fjord’s throat, fingers digging in lightly just to remind him that they could._

_Fjord keened low and needy, rolling his head back against his shoulder. The hand still clutching firmly at his hip tugged sharply, spinning him around and pushing him firmly back against the hard surface of the wall before Fjord could catch his bearings._

_Through the heavy warm haze that surrounded him, clever blue eyes bore into Fjord, watching him over sharp cheekbones, fixing him in place until Fjord even felt the breath in his lungs still, unbidden._

_Oh._

_Widogast- Caleb- grinned predatorily, lips red and slick from dragging over his skin, and Fjord’s heart leapt in response. His fingers bit mercilessly into the flesh of Fjord’s waist, and sighing quietly Fjord couldn’t help but roll his hips forward against Caleb’s, still pressed flush together. There was a thought trying to form in his mind, but failing all the same to push through the haze of pure want that drove Fjord’s eyes closed as his head fell back and that pulled the low moan from his lips._

_He chased after the feeling, pushed forward into the delicious heat that encompassed him, revelled in every drag of fingers and lips and unforgiving teeth over bare skin. And Fjord was kissing him at some point, either that or being kissed, more teeth and tongue than lips as he swallowed every quiet sound the man would give him._

_But warmth slowly cooled, and Fjord tasted the brine of sea water on his tongue. And Fjord was reminded that he was dreaming. The displaced nature of the moment reared its ugly head, but still he chased after it, wanted it back even as the fleeting touches and pressure rolled away like the low tide._

_He gasped as the warmth hanging mutedly over his skin turned colder still, sharper, pressing in all around him like deep water though never truly threatening to crush or suffocate or tear him down to the depths. It knew better. It obeyed. And this,_ this _, he was familiar with._

 _No, no, no, not_ now _._

_Still the hot thread of tension burned through him, tugging at his gut, begging for release, but it was the only warmth he felt, far overshadowed by the looming frigid presence that wove its tentacles through the dark. Inky blackness spun its threads though the water around him, spinning and churning until it was impossible to tell up from down. And then the piercing golden light of Uk’atoa’s great eye snapping open before him captured his focus._

_At one time, Fjord would’ve found this terrifying. Now, it was annoying. His patron’s choice of communications was untimely at best._

_He sighed, water flowing easily into his lungs like air. “Can I help you, overgrown fuckin’ octapus?” he muttered, half expecting the demigod to thrashs him about a bit through some disjointed visions like it typically did whenever it deemed it necessary to convey something, be that information, a desire, an avoidable outcome, whatever the need may be. Though even that was rare these days._

_And so it quieted Fjord’s disgruntled thoughts when his patron’s voice ripped through his mind, deep and echoing without any place of origin he could pinpoint._ That _, he hadn’t gotten in a long while. Not since the beastie broke free._

 **_Learn_ ** _, it rumbled through Fjord’s chest. The gold light flared and washed out his vision, and flashing before his eyes briefly was the fleeting image of piercing blue irises._

 **_Grow._ ** _And Fjord’s vision rose through the water, flashing above the cresting waves of a violent storm. Through the grey wind and water, he saw ships being tossed dangerously close to one another where they were anchored at port. A familiar port, rough and ramshackle in places but sturdy. Darktow. His vision broke and flashed again to a fire, burning far too bright and climbing far too high, white hot at its center as it consumed everything in his field of vision, climbing higher, higher into the sky as it licked up the grey rock face shrouded by night, until before it he saw illuminated the Throne Roost of the Plank King._

 _There was a long pause as the white light of the flames flickered out and his vision darkened again, the turbulent waters calming as his sight sank below the waves once more. Then, a deep reverberation through his mind, quieter this time as his visions faded altogether. The memory of the dream wormed its way to the forefront of his mind once more, the sensation of fingers digging into his hips and lips dragging down his neck fading slowly, the clutches of sleep fading along with it._ **_Reward…_ **

Fjord didn’t wake up with a jolt like he usually would after one of his patron’s dreams. Instead he felt like he was drifting up to the surface of warm waters slowly. Water replaced by the gentle warmth of the blankets and still air that cradled him, Fjord’s eyes opening to find himself face down on his bed in the Pillow Trove, everything hazy with sleep except for the hot thread of want still ablaze tantalizingly deep in his belly. And it _tugged_ , reminding him in flash of the dream before, of _blue eyes looking up at him._ He groaned, tired and frustrated, and grumbled into the pillow something unpleasant about godsdamned giant reptiles. But as Fjord went to push himself up onto his elbows, his hips pressed into the soft mattress and he bit back a surprised gasp as he found himself half hard and rolling his hips involuntarily into the little bit of pressure and friction with a low groan.

Confused and uncomfortable with his legs bound up by sweat-damp sheets, swearing between grunts of effort, Fjord turned over onto his back and tore the sheets off of him to lie back panting up at the canopy hanging overhead.

Divines above and below, Fjord swore he regretted releasing that great fucking useless serpent sometimes. At least it stopped making him vomit sea water though. What it wanted now, he wasn’t sure. He never was, typically, not until it came to pass. Even of exactly how much of his, er, _dreaming_ was courtesy of his patron and how much Fjord’s brain supplied itself he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t even know which was worse-- Uk’otoa waving what he knew he couldn’t have over his head in a _rather_ personal and inappropriate way, or having no one to blame for those fantasies but himself.

Gods, he really was no better than Molly, was he.

Speaking of Molly, he heard cackling from the lounge outside his bedroom. He froze, air caught in his lungs as his eyes darted to the door, cracked open a few inches. Straining to listen, the noise was distant enough that he wasn’t concerned of being caught in a, call it a compromised position, but near enough that it meant the two tieflings had, for whatever reason that morning, come through the door connecting to Jester’s adjacent suite in order to loiter in his own.

He exhaled shakily, willing himself to relax. Still lying on his back, naked except for the thin cotton pants that clung to his sweat-beaded skin uncomfortably, Fjord closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and counting backwards from twenty to try and calm his racing heartbeat and quell the tension that swelled and tugged warmly in his gut. While he was able to get his pulse back under control in a moment, he found there was very little he could do just sprawled there to appease the _want_ that still had its hooks under his skin.

Even behind closed eyelids, his brain unhelpfully wandered back to the feeling of those hands splayed across his heated skin. He wondered what exactly they would feel like, fingers tracing lightly around his collar. Imagined If they were calloused or smooth as they toyed lower with a tantalizing slow drag down the line of his sternum, fingernails scraping lightly over his nipple and tensed abdomend, rising and falling unsteadily with short bursts of breath. The cogent part of his head made his eyes dart back to the doorway, teeth worrying roughly at his lower lip, but that concern was driven away by the heat coiling in his gut. It was fine. They would leave. They weren’t coming in here, he could be quiet.

That image was so heavy and _real_ , Fjord found himself giving into it, sliding his own hand slowly down his chest, skin prickling, hips pushing away from the mattress into his own touch to grind his palm against his half roused cock. Swallowing his moan, he bit at the knuckle of his other hand, eyes closed tight as those swimming images continued to play behind his eyelids.

Those hands, _Caleb’s_ hands, elegant and capable, gripped firmly at his hips; fingers digging into his waist, into his thighs; biting kisses against the line of his pelvis, tongue dragging hot and wet up that quivering line of muscle. And in this rapidly developing fantasy Caleb paused, lips parted and hot damp breath spilling across Fjord’s over-sensitive skin. Waiting for something, Widogast flicked his eyes up to Fjord’s face, startlingly blue through pale eyelashes, and he tried to picture what his expression, usually so stoic and bare would look like. Fjord choked on a low groan as he slipped his own hand beneath the waistband of the thin fabric, envisioning Widogast doing the same, and--

A loud banging crash came from the other room. Fjord snapped his hand away, heart leaping in his chest at the jolt. He immediately sat upright,  swinging his legs off the side of the bed and trying to rein in his breath. The crash was followed by the sudden silencing of the giggles and chatter that only happened when something’s gone wrong. He sucked in a deep breath, pressing both fists into the mattress at his sides.

 _Fuck_ . What the hell was he even doing? He couldn’t do _this_ , not right here, not right now, _not with him_. Fuck.

He bit his lip hard, the pain doing nothing to cool the heat pooling in his belly. Fjord shook his head, cursing himself and how stupidly horny he was. He glared down at his unflagging erection hoping beyond reason that would do the trick, but it only left him more frustrated. Cursing himself and his patron-- some fucking _reward_ , what the fuck was that even about-- he instead forced himself to his feet and began padding around the room, collecting his trousers and a shirt and changing quickly, ignoring what he hoped was only momentary discomfort.

So what. He was a little horny. Understandably so, it had been a while. Sure, he felt a little bad for using the man as fodder for his fantasies. Fjord couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of seeing Widogast-- of seeing _Caleb_ \-- face to face later that very day, when they were next meant to meet and discuss terms of an arrangement between the Empire and the Revelry. How he was going to look him in the eye without re-conjuring that smouldering look, he wasn’t sure.

Mentally cursing himself and refusing to let his mind wander any more, Fjord shoved the long tail ends of his shirt into his trousers roughly before yanking it out again, letting it hang past his waist to preserve a little more modesty so long as his body wasn’t going to cooperate. All the while, he’d run his tongue hard over his teeth and the odd rough ends of his filed down tusks until he’d bruised it.

Fuck. And now his mood had gone entirely sour.

He pushed through the door of the master bedroom hard enough to send it careening into the wall with a loud thud. Doing a quick scan around the room, a dark scowl fixed in place, his eyes landed on Molly and Jester across the room by the large bay windows. Both of them failed miserably at hiding guilty expressions behind shit-eating grins they flashed him as he walked over, both caught in the act, though _which_ act he wasn’t sure. Fjord crossed his arms, leveling a deep look of suspicion at both of them.

“Ah, I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Molly observed, smiling prettily like he had nothing to hide. He waggled a playful eyebrow at Fjord, who only scowled harder.

“Oh!” Jester chirped, “good morning, Fjord.” She grinned cheerily at him, clasping her hands together behind her back as her tail swished anxiously behind her. “It’s the start of another beautiful morning in Zadash,” she sing-songed, looking at him like she was hopeful that he might lighten up a little.  

And, well, she at least didn’t deserve his irritation. He gave them both a very pointed look still, then inclined his chin down at the large curtain rod and crumpled thick folds of the until-very-recently hanging fabric attached to it, both of which looked rather incriminating lying at their feet.

“Ah, about that,” Molly began, grinning sheepishly, but Fjord cut him off with a sharp look before he could launch into one of his half truth, half great load of horse shit explanations.

“Molly,” he addressed, deadpan. “Jester. One of you care to explain what’s goin’ on here?”

Molly drew in a deep breath and Fjord expected a long-winded explanation, which made his single word answer surprising. “Needlework,” Molly said simply, hands on his hips, which were cocked daringly to one side. Despite the challenge he projected at Fjord, or perhaps _because_ of it and the way he’d been looking at him all day yesterday, Fjord couldn’t help but feel there was something Molly was working himself up to say. But he hadn’t said it yet.

Fjord looked at the coffee table they’d dragged over to a place directly beneath the large window, its top strewn with various dresses and Molly’s garish coat and various other articles of clothing he couldn’t immediately identify, along with a jumble of fabric, ribbons, needles, colorful spools of thread, and beads and baubles from Molly’s sewing kit.

“Riiiight,” Fjord drawled. He sighed, pressing hard with one hand at what felt like the permanent deep crease between his eyebrows.

“Sorry Fjord,” Jester apologized, her eyes fixed on the floor as she worried at her lower lip guiltily. “It’s just- it’s just your room has the big east facing window and the sun was coming up still and we wanted the best light for sewing and embroidering some things is all.”

Fjord eyes them both, rather dubious of their activities and intents. “Sewing and embroidering…” he glanced out the window at the still low sun, “at eight in the morning?”

Jester smiled all the more brightly and both she and Molly nodded sincerely.

“Yes, what of it?” Molly challenged, hands on his hips and mouth pouting as he looked at Fjord critically. “What’s got you all in a state this early in the morning?”

“Ain’t in a fuckin’ state,” Fjord grumbled, leveling a cool look at the tiefling. “And if I am, maybe it’s cuz you’re in my fuckin’ room this early in the morning.”

“Did we wake you up, Fjord?” Jester asked, sounding genuinely apologetic. “We didn’t mean to.” But Fjord’s glare did not leave the challenging look Molly returned, and her inquiry went ignored.

“Oh please,” Molly rolled his eyes, “it’s not like it’s your _room_ , room. Not like we were jumping on your bed.”

“Molly-” he warned.

“Oh can it, Cap. As if you’re not still pissed at me about the flirting thing,” he waived off dismissively, tail flicking huffily over his shoulder.

Bringing the conversation back to Widogast was the last thing Fjord wanted to do, but of course that only occurred to him after he jumped at Molly’s bait. “So you admit you were flirting now.”

“Of course I was fucking flirting!” Molly hollered, throwing his arms wide. “When am I not? Doesn’t mean it meant fuck all-”

“Then why’re you changing your story, Mols?”

“-or I intended anythin’ by it.”

“Why are we fighting about this again!?” Jester cried, burying both hands in her hair. “We get it, you both think he’s like hot shit or something-”

“He’s just upset because he’s allowed to flirt with the Archmage and I’m not,” Molly shrugged, daring Fjord to argue.

“That’s not- _I’m_ not-”

“Hey,” Yasha’s voice, low and firm from the door behind them, captured all of their attention. She had a way of doing that.

The three of them spun around to see her standing in the middle of the open doorway, frowning and looking between them all uncertainly. She carried her greatsword, never far from hand, non-threateningly thankfully down by her side.

“Thank the Traveller, Yasha,” Jester gasped. “These two are being stupid. Fjord’s all angry for no reason-”

“I am not-” Fjord began, indignant.

“-and Molly’s just making him worse.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Stop it,” Yasha warned them, dark eyes flicking between the Fjord and Molly. “Both of you. You’re being very loud.”

Even though Molly shot a petty look at him and he glowered back, Yasha’s scowl sufficiently subdued them for the moment at least.

“Fjord…” Jester prodded in that sing-song voice that spelled all sorts of trouble. “What’s going on Fjord? You can tell us anything, you know. _Anything._ ”

“I’m fine, Jes,” he sighed.

“Was it a _dream_ Fjord? Did we interrupt a _good_ dream? Is that why you’re all angry?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows at him. It was nice that she usually tried to lighten things with humor, but this really wasn’t the time.

Fjord felt heat fan creep across his face, not that it showed up much on his skin, but he cleared his throat and avoided her eye contact resolutely, willing it away. She was just being silly, he knew, but she was way too close to the embarrassing truth for comfort. “Jester-”

“Oh, I get it,” Molly interrupted, cackling. “How good a dream Fjord?” he asked, voice dropping to something low and suggestive.

“Was it a _wet dream_ , Fjord?” Jester asked, near giddy, and they would never let him live down the whole dreaming then literally spitting up salt water thing. It had too tempting a double meaning. “Who was it?” she squealed with glee, hopping up and down on her toes excitedly. “Was it _him_? Oh I bet it was.”

Fjord, stammering, was saved from having to say anything by Yasha’s heavy sigh. “Cut it out. Both of you.”

Jester rolled her eyes, waving her off. “Okay, seriously though,” Jester said-- to her merit-- more seriously. “Molly’s just being Molly, but Fjord, why are you being so stupid?”

“I-” he cut himself off, huffing out a breath. “I’m not- he’s bein’,” he motioned beseechingly at Molly, words he had a hard time putting together coming out in the form of a frustrated noise from that back of his throat. But even Yasha looked at him with that quiet concern. “Fuck,” he sighed, turning away from them and taking a few steps, pressing hard at the bridge of his nose as the last dregs of that morning’s uncalled for adrenaline drained away. His shoulders fell, along with the dawning realization that he really wasn’t doing himself any favors.

There was a long pause, the growing concern in the room tangible. “Fjord?” The regret showed on Jester’s face. She took a half step forward before stopping herself, clutching her Traveller’s symbol anxiously.

“I’m,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m fine, just- I’m sorry. Ignore me,” he waved them off, as if they’d accept that and leave. Taking a steadying breath he stood up a little straighter and turned back to them, clearing his throat before proceeding. “I’m a little- yeah, sorry. Just, _he’s_ just started up again with the dreams and shit,” Fjord said, mouth dry, pointing up absently as he referred to his patron. There wasn’t really any general direction all-powerful ocean serpent demi-gods tended to hang around, but that one suited his purpose just fine. “And I don’t, well I’m a little off my bearings, yeah.”

“Ooooh,” Jester cooed, understanding. “Did you cough up sea water again?”

“Did he say anything?” Yasha asked.

“What’s that scaly bastard want now?” Molly joined in. “I thought he was happy in the elemental plane of water, or wherever the fuck we put him,” he said with an addition florish of waggling fingers.

“No, Jes, he’s been nicer since we sprang him. And no, not really?” he addressed Yasha. “But I think he’s trying to?” Fjord sucked in a breath, crossing his arms. “I don’t fuckin’ know. I’m more confused than anything.”

“Well, what did you see?” Jester asked expectantly, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the couch to sit. Molly had already dropped down onto one of the chairs, straddling it precariously, and Yasha stepped further into the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Fjord went begrudgingly but he didn’t sit, crossing his arms self-consciously. “I- I hardly even remember,” he stammered, remembering in vivid detail how Widogast looked, pressing a trail of biting kisses down the line of his hip. “I dunno, he’ll clarify if he wants me to get something.”

“Come on, Fjord,” Jester begged, bouncing a little in her seat from excitement despite herself. “You remember something, just tell us.”

“Um- it’s uncomfortable, I’d really rather not Jes,” he mumbled lamely, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Was it, bad?” Yasha asked carefully, understanding. “The Stormlord has showed me a lot of pretty upsetting things. Like, mountains of bodies,” she said, sounding unperturbed in only the way that Yasha could. “But, that’s never really come to pass,” she said reassuringly, trying to help, and Fjord felt bad for misleading her. “Usually it’s just been symbolic of something.”

“Right,” Molly said, eyeing him closely, and Fjord could hardly meet the tiefling’s gaze. “Uk’otoa’s only sent, uh, call it _creative_ messages before.” He paused, thinking. “And, well, a few threats mind you.”

“And he almost drowned you with sea water,” Jester piped up. “Don’t forget that.”

Molly nodded considerately. “And he’s almost crushed you to death, admittedly.”

“And he’s taken away all your cool powers.”

“And-”

“Alright enough,” Yasha sighed. “That’s really not what I was going for.”

“Look,” Fjord sighed, focussing on the parts of the dream that scared him the least. “It’s- There was a storm, outside Darktow I think. And then, a lot of fire, and something about learning something.”

“He didn’t say what?” Molly asked. “Did he show you anything else?”

“I just need some time to sort it out, alright?” he asked, almost pleading. All the _other_ shit aside, he really was out of sorts.

Jester gave him a dubious look, her brow knitted together with worry and lip between her teeth, but she stayed silent.

“Hmm,” Molly hummed, tilting his head as he watched Fjord closely. “If you say so, Captain.”

“Yeah,” Fjord insisted more firmly. “I do.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb was not sleeping at his desk when the silver wire alarm laced across the top of the manor’s stairs rang in the back of his mind. He was merely resting his eyes. The ringing warning was however, he was sure, the only reason he did not fall out of his seat when Beauregard began banging her fist against the closed study door. It wasn’t even locked.

“You can come in,” he had to say twice, the first too quiet to be heard through what could only very generously be called knocking.

The door swung open to reveal the monk in complete Cobalt colors leaning her shoulder against the doorway. “Let’s go, nerd.”

Caleb didn’t stand, didn’t even lift his chin off his hands, fingers knitted together and elbows resting on the surface of his cluttered desk. He only blinked at her a few times, a little slow on the uptake to muster a better response. “I beg your pardon?”

“Clearance for the restricted section came through. The library awaits,” she said as she swept an arm outward as if to beckon him out.

“Oh…” He gathered his thoughts, blinked through the haze of restless sleep, putting two and two together. “Oh, _scheisse_ ,” he swore, recalling the request he’d made of Beauregard the day before and his plans to spend the morning at Zadash’s Cobalt Reserve. Shoving his chair back and nearly tripping over a stray stack of books by his feet as he navigated through the mess of the study to the other side of the desk, the room now packed with a week’s worth of materials delivered from Rexxentrum, Beauregard looked around with nothing short of harsh judgement.

Her eyes eventually landed on him, grabbing his satchel from over the back of an armchair loaded with tomes and ledgers and scooping up his research materials from various places around the room. “Everything alright?” she asked, the sort of careful tone underlying the question that meant it was not the question she wanted to ask, but it was the safe one.

Caleb was self-aware enough to know he did not look entirely well-rested.  He had drifted in and out of various depths of unconsciousness since he’d committed to at least trying to rest a little after the clock struck midnight. At his more sleepless moments, he was tormented by the constant knowledge of time passing in crawling, fragmented intervals. Tossing and turning and at just past four in the morning finding himself desperate enough to try Caduceus’s breathing exercises, he managed to pass out for only a short while before resurfacing through the haze.

His mind had raced all night, thoughts refusing to lie still as they leapt between every project he balanced, every operative he oversaw, every detail which needed his attention but which he hadn’t yet the time to tend to. And for each of them, his mind so unhelpfully supplied issues which had not yet even arisen. Crises which had yet to need averting. Caleb Widogast lived through many terrible things; only about half of them actually happened. The rest were mere  imagined scenarios of how everything might go wrong fueled by anxiety and justifiable paranoia.

And so he was not surprised either when his anxieties mingled with nightmares. Unsure if he was even dreaming or reliving a distorted memory, Caleb vividly recalled finding himself enveloped in fire. At the center of a churning firestorm which he knew in his bones was one of his own making, flames licking at the black, damp and steaming stone beneath him, it was not the scorching heat which tore him from sleep and sent him jolting upright in his bed. It wasn’t the dull roar of the maelstrom of fire like thunder. Rather, it was the bright yellow lidless eye through the parting flames, its great gash down the middle bleeding shadow as it rotated to fix its sight on him.

That, more than anything, stayed in his memory when he woke.

He left his bed after that, at five thirty-three in the morning, and abandoned the prospect of sleep altogether. Instead, he dressed for the day and set about quieting his head by reading truly tedious scout reports of Kryn movements and detailed manifests of supplies seized in raids of Kryn outposts this side of the mountains.

“Yes, _gut_ , I was just,” he waved at the desk’s contents abstractly, failing to find the right word. “Thinking,” he landed on lamely. He continued sorting through notes to add to his growing collection.

“Right. Well.” She made her way into the middle of the room. “Please just tell me you have the reports for Rexxentrum finished. Courier from the Assembly arrived this morning, and I need to get them to her before she leaves tonight.”

“Yes, yes,” Caleb said, nearly knocking a haphazard stack of books off the corner of the table as he dodged around her toward the stack of files he’d left on the seat of the armchair, absent any other empty surface in the small cluttered study. Grabbing them, he turned and thrust them into her hands. “Sign the top three.”

She froze, frowning down at the completed paperwork. “You did mine for me?”

“I had time on my hands.” Caleb spun around in place, eyes searching for wherever in this mess he’d left his coat. “You sound disbelieving.” Spotting the telltale rough corners of the travel worn fabric draped over the screen of the cold fireplace, he darted across the study, sidestepping an errant chest of fine paper and rarer spell components he’d had delivered from Rexxentrum.

“No- just,” she shrugged, turning to poke through the loose documents and tomes scattered across the desktop to find a quill and inkwell. “Thanks.”

“ _Bitte_ -” Caleb wrestled to get his arms through the sleeves, struggling to shift his satchel-- still open and threatening to spill its hastily gathered contents-- from one arm to the other as he did. “Do not mention it.”

“Won’t. Where the fuck’s the-”

“Top drawer, left side. Have the scout reports arrived?”

“Yeah, I put ‘em on the table in the hallway. They’ll get lost in here.”

Coat finally subdued, he began looping his favorite blue scarf around his neck. “You know Beauregard,” he sighed, “I am really doing my best.” The room was half the size of his study in the Assembly hall. She knew that. And even if it was about the same size as his personal study, he also had a personal library in his keep. This little room was performing the job of all three, at least for now.

“Gonna have to start moving the spillover to the conference room downstairs,” Beau grunted, clutching the rest of the stack of papers between her chin and collar while scribbling her signature messily across a few others atop the desk. “At least it has a door that locks. We’ll make it a war room. Better than the hallway.”

Looking around the catastrophe that was the study, as much as he didn’t like the idea of moving part of his work space downstairs, Caleb relented. “Fine, _verdammt_. Someone will have to send word-”

“Tell the Nicodranas crew there’s a shift in venue, got it,” she barked, and even though she was spilling droplets of ink all over, Caleb appreciated her efficiency.

“King’s Hall?” he proposed.

“Sounds good. I’ll send one of your babysitters to ask the Lawmaster for some space.”

Bag of research materials over his shoulder, coat buttoned, spell components pouch and books tucked away safely, Caleb stopped and gave the room a final once-over. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the rough scrape of stubble. “I am missing something. I know I am missing something.”

Frowning, Beauregard shuffled the papers back into an orderly stack as she thought on it. “The inquiry into mining projects in the-- oh, fuck,” she exclaimed. “That reminds me. Letter came for you with the usual stuff. Archmage Da’leth’s office. It’s with the pile. Want me to grab it?”

Caleb shook his head, waving the question away. “ _Nein,_ no. With the rest is fine. I’ll get to it.” He had enough to work through as it was. “I need… _scheisse_.”

“The inquiry?” She tucked the stack under her arm.

“No, the missive on Kryn tunneling through the Ashkeepers,” he remembered. “That is what I was forgetting.”

Moving toward the door, Beauregard nodded. “Right, that. Caliana’s care package came in with the courier. The team in Trostenwald had a crack at decoding it but they’re strained on personnel down there. If you want I can get someone on it.”

“Hm, no, no, I will do it,” he said, thinking. Caleb huffed in surprise when Beau walked into his back. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking.

“Oof, sorry,” she muttered, moving around him when he didn’t resume walking. “Coming?”

He frowned, fingers tightening around the strap over his shoulder. “I can do it faster.”

“Um, sure I guess.” She gave him a funny look. “But, it really might be worth assigning this one-”

“Is Calianna still embedded in Dumaran or has she moved toward Ghor Dranas yet?” he asked, fingers tapping out a rhythm against the strap of his satchel, eyes fixed on the peeling wallpaper in the corner of the room.

The monk tucked the files under her arm. “The roads are packed with moving platoons of Kryn soldiers and the wildlands are way too dangerous for one person to go alone. Do you want her there quickly or alive?”

“Both,” he replied, continuing his path toward the door. “Remind me to have Nott send word out to her little birds,” he said, using her affectionate term for the network of personnel and contacts his office managed. “I want new feet on the ground in Ghor Dranas within a fortnight. If she cannot make it, someone else will. ”

“What’s with the sudden urgency?”

“I have been reading Kryn supply manifests,” he said, tugging his gloves out of his pocket.

“Of course you have. Sounds boring as shit,” she remarked, kicking the door open. “Doesn’t really answer the question though,”

“I am concerned about sudden shifts in the past two weeks, unlikely to be simple discrepancies. It has been sixteen days since your mentor was discovered and withdrew to Bladegarden. I don’t want more excuses, I want eyes in the capitol.”

“Alright, whatever.”

They continued out into the hallway, tailoring their conversation to the lesser degree of warding and new prying eyes and ears accordingly, which meant it mostly stopped altogether.

Caleb’s thoughts drifted back as he descended the stairs to the odd vision that for the second time crept up in his dreams.

“Eh, Beauregard,” he said slowly, cautiously as he himself wasn’t sure still if making anything of it was the best course of action. But he was curious, very much so, and didn’t have any time on his hands for side projects. There was something about it, the dreams, visions, nightmares, call them what one will, that gnawed at him still. Something ethereal that he was not attuned to.

“Yeah?”

“While we are at the library, I want you to find something for me. Unrelated and low priority, but… it may be helpful.“ To him, at least. Possibly.

Sure,” she shrugged, though he could tell, she was striving to sound less interested than she was. “What is it?”

“Ideally a catalogue of iconography if such an encyclopedia exists, though any broad research on the subject will do.” It was odd, yes, though by far not the strangest request he had ever made of her.

Coming down the stairs behind him, he heard her sigh quietly, deflated. No doubt she was hoping for something a little more intriguing. “Yeah, I can get that. Religious? Cultural? Specific to region? What sort are you looking for?”

“I have no idea.”

She sighed. “All of the above it is then.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord found it very difficult to ignore the side eye he was very aware Jester was giving him. She just couldn’t help herself.

Every time he and Ca-- _Widogast_ , Fjord corrected himself. That much familiarity was just a bad idea, if last night taught him anything. It seemed like every time he and Widogast spoke for too long an exchange by Jester’s standards without Widogast directing a question at someone else or Molly or Jester herself jumping in (Yasha remained mostly silent), he saw her direct this look at him from the corner of his eye. But while her eyes cautiously said _oh don’t do it Fjord_ , the rise of her eyebrows and tight purse of her lips indicated she was having a hard time not bouncing up and down in her seat with glee. No matter if it was all a ploy and Widogast could probably have them all killed horribly if he liked, as Fjord kept trying to remind himself. It was distracting and awkward, and Molly certainly didn’t help either.

“So, not for any particular reason, mind you,” Molly interrupted Widogast for what must have been the fourth time in the mere fifteen minutes since they had been ushered into the large room deep in the corridors of the King’s Hall, Widogast already seated and waiting for them. “But it just occurred to me, have you by any chance ever encountered the Ruby of the Sea?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Fjord heard Jester suck in a sharp breath, glaring daggers at the tiefling.

And either Widogast was just beginning to grow tired of it, or his frustration was only now beginning to show. He seemed to consider for a brief flash ignoring Molly and continuing with his explanation of the Empire’s interest in the security of two specific oceanic trade routes to Marquette, large map rolled out on the table between them. Exhaling heavily through his nose, his jaw went tight for just a moment. But his eyes shifted from Fjord to Molly, expression blank. And blank was worse than the polite smile, because even if that was in all likelihood fake, it at least meant he was invested in keeping things cordial.

As Widogast fell silent, weighing the question, Molly and his tight-lipped smile demonstrated he hadn’t enough of a sense of self-preservation to shut the hell up. Fjord dropped his face into his hand, fingers and thumb rubbing hard circles at his temples.

“I do not believe I have heard this term before. So likely not,” Widogast said, tone flat and words clipped. “Do you have other questions to get out of the way, or may we return t-”

“Well actually-” Molly began.

“Nope,” Fjord interjected sharply. Molly pouted at Fjord, frowning, which he ignored. “No questions, except of course if you could clarify what exact uh, degree, of protection the Empire’s hoping for here south of Bisaft,” he said, leaning forward to indicate on the map. “The Revelry’s reach only extends so far, and it’s not like the Empire’s got any merchant vessels out there.”

“Correct, though there is an interest in the goods and resources which are imported to the Coast through these routes, which in turn are shipped further north. And I understand your people have limited reach in this region. We would like them to have even less. Understand?” Widogast seemed happy enough to resume their work despite his demonstrated lack of any interest in mercantile affairs, even considering the quasi-military nature of their negotiations. The intensity and genuine interest Fjord had seen the man bring to even his brief minute at work outside the Hall of Erudition was a far cry from the tedious sense of obligation with which Widogast seemed to approach their ongoing talks.

“Ah, I see,” Fjord said, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought, staring at the map and ignoring Molly’s eye roll. “Well that’s a little more tricky. If we’re talking about withdrawing from a region, we’re talking about loss of revenue.”

“Revenue?” Widogast asked curiously, head tilted slightly to the side. “So that is what you call it.”

“Now there’s no need to be petty,” Molly warned, smiling sweetly.

“Technically though,” Jester began, wringing her hands, “that’s what it is, _technically_.”

Fjord took a breath to try and course-correct the conversation, but Widogast held up a hand placatingly. “It does not matter. All that matters is that if this possible, we can work out an appropriate sum to-”

Widogast paused mid-sentence, frowning, and his gaze drifted down to a point on the table. “An amount suitable to… to compensate your… ” His words slowed, mind obviously elsewhere and working quickly if the deepening crease between his brows and darting eyes was anything to go by. His left hand drifted up seemingly without his notice to brush a strand of loose hair behind his ear, fingers brushing over and hesitating at the simple silver earring Fjord hadn’t noticed before.

Fjord glanced at the others then back to the Archmage, not entirely certain what was going on. “Uh, everything alri-”

“To compensate your lost revenue,” Widogast said quickly, chair legs shrieking against the marble floor as he stood hastily. “We will reschedule, I have to-” Widogast spun around sharply and all of their heads snapped up as the large heavy wooden door, as ornately carved as the rest of the floor-to-ceiling wood panelling around them, swung open suddenly.

Already on edge, Fjord stood also, muscles tensing, coming close to instinctively summoning his falchion at the sudden dull echo of the door being thrown open. His compatriots were no different, on their feet in an instant, Jester’s hand immediately going to her holy symbol and the others’ hands already resting on the pomels of their weapons.

Widogast was the only one to remain still as the single Righteous Brand soldier jogged through the door without announcement. Fjord recognized the soldier, the lightly armored dark skinned half-elf, one of the Archmage’s guards. And he ignored them entirely, making a quick path right to Widogast and sliding up next to him, turning to intentionally put his back to rest as he leaned in to shield his hurried whisper by Widogast’s ear.

Fjord ignored Jester’s tugging at his arm and Molly and Yasha’s worried exchange of looks both with each other and to Fjord trying to get his attention. He learned closer instead with the seconds he had to make the decision to either politely ignore it or obviously eavesdrop, hands braced on the edge of the table, focusing on listening as closely as he could and staring intently at the fragmented moments he could see of the soldier’s mouth moving from where he’d turned his back to them.

All that he really managed to see was Widogast’s face going stone cold, eyes darkening with something dangerous.

But what he heard of the quiet whisper, in fleeting words he may or may not have heard correctly, was “Kryn”, and “tunnel”. And after the soldier took a shaky breath, seemingly startled by whatever was happening himself, Fjord caught a phrase slightly more clearly that the rest.

“Felderwin and its fields are on fire.”


	8. burnout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are welcome lol, I picked up two beta readers who were so incredibly helpful and for whom I am incredibly grateful. Thank you very much to ourdivineashes and amaronith, you guys are great.

The cold snap of marble under heel was the loudest sound in his ears, the only sound wherever he passed by along granite pillars and stricken faces of rallying guards and officials alike, plastering themselves closer to the walls as Caleb stormed by. Word of Felderwin had just arrived, and the results, he imagined, where much akin to kicking a hornet nest. 

And so Caleb’s only announcement before thrusting out a hand toward the dual massive stone doors between himself and the Lawmaster’s war room, letting telekinesis do the rest, was the expression he wore like thunder. Dark, dangerous, and providing a few narrow seconds’ warning. 

Because, quite simply, he was angry. More than angry. He was furious that the Dynasty would make so brazen an attack so deep within the Empire. Furious that he’d allowed petty politics to drag him away from the Capitol and his work there, stalled in the meantime. Furious that there was no intelligence, no forewarning, no intercepted word or scrap of information regarding movement toward aggression made by the Dynasty from any of his operatives, positioned domestically or in Xhorhas. Furious that he had allowed himself to grow complacent during the lull in the war, enough so to devote his attention to internal political designs like this ridiculous assignment and momentarily forget the external threat. 

The two Crownsguard positioned on either side of the heavy doors leapt out of the way as they went careening open with a cacophonous boom of colliding stone that echoed down the hallway. But Caleb was not about to stop and wait while they went through the process of hauling the things open. He had no taste for ornamental, useless things.

Striding into the room, it was nearly oval in shape except the walls met in wide angles rather than curves. Each was draped in mutely colored banners bearing the royal crest, except for where the large, detailed tapestry bearing a sprawling map of Wildemount hung before the granite table twelve feet across taking up the center of the room. Around it, six faces looked up at his arrival, mercifully few for what he expected, perhaps skewed by his experience in the Capitol. There, a significantly larger war room would be crawling with Cerberus mages and military advisors and perhaps even a royal or two this very moment. A war room which by all rights he ought to be in. But this was Zadash. And realistically, there was nothing he could do there which he could not accomplish here, particularly now given the contents of his office had been relocated with him. So instead, he walked into a room of six people-- the Lawmaster Orentha Stonegrasp, a soldier in regalia which identified him as Captain of the City Crownsguard, a half-elven woman he did not recognize, Beauregard, another monk in full Cobalt colors he identified as her mentor Dairon, and Nott, perched on a chair in full goblin form.

“I only found out from Dairon like ten minutes ago,” Beauregard began as soon as he breached the doorway. “We were at the Reserve, I came here and I grabbed Rune as soon as I-”

He held up a hand, silencing her. “How long ago?” he asked, too angry to be loud. Turning to round the table slightly, he stopped at the head of it, hands on the back of the chair before him.

The Lawmaster, a sturdy woman, seemed more tired than anything as she looked up at him, worry lines biting deep into her face. “You knew before I did, Archmage. Though by all reports, it’s a little late to worry about anything but shoring up our own defenses and the neighboring tillage against another incursion.”

Out of respect for her position, Caleb bit back commenting on how that was not an answer to his question. Dairon stepped forward though before he could lend it much more thought. “The Cobalt Reserve received messages just as the Cerberus did. The Kryn broke through the ground in Felderwin anytime from forty-five minutes to an hour ago.”

“That is fifteen minutes unaccounted for.”

Dairon’s mouth pressed into a flat line, frustration flaring in her eyes. Of the few times he had met the monk, working not technically  _ for  _ his office but rather with it, much like her protege, she had never much good will for him. Dairon opened her mouth to reply but Beauregard intervened, side-eying her with an expression Caleb couldn’t quite read. “The battlemage garrisoned in Felderwin that sent out the original warning was on the other side of the city when it began,” she explained quickly. “And when messaged back for clarification, she could not be reached because… what we can only assume are pretty permanent circumstances.” 

The elven woman he did not recognize, tall and gaunt, nobility of some sort he figured based on the dress she wore, cleared her throat unnecessarily. Caleb ignored her in favor of instead appraising the ovular stone table and the cloth runner and candle adornment which rested atop them, humming approvingly. This would suit his purposes just fine.

“I agree with the Lawmaster. Whatever’s happened in Felderwin doesn’t matter,” she said, and Beauregard snorted reproachfully. “We should direct our attention to our  _ own  _ defenses.”

“And you are?” Caleb intoned, internally agreeing with Beauregard’s astute assessment. He reached into his cloak and pulled free his spell book, dropping it on the polished stone with a gentle thud.

“I am High Richter of Zadash, Dayana Pr-”

“High Richter,” he repeated. “You are a judiciary official, yes?” He could only gauge her reaction in her tone and response as he had yet to actually turn his attention to her, but that was more than enough to detect indignation and affront.

“Of a sort, y–”

“Then do not speak on military concerns.”

The High Richter inhaled sharply to reply critically no doubt, but she ended her complaint before it began with an undignified squawk of surprise as Caleb leaned over the back of the chair, ripped the silk runner from the table and threw it aside, candles clattering loudly on stonework as they went with it. “Archmage!” she hissed, “What in the gods’ names –”

“Dayana,  _ please _ ,” the Lawmaster quieted her sharply. Though she too looked alarmed, she seemed willing to lend the benefit of the doubt.

“Beauregard, I want messages to our people in all garrisons and outposts from the Ashkeepers to the Labenda to prepare full mobilization,” Caleb ordered, the monk’s attention snapping back to him raptly. “And I want those new reports –” 

“– on all Kryn movements along the Ashkeepers. I already sent word.” 

Caleb nodded as he rolled his sleeves to the elbow, unclasping his cloak and letting it drift to the floor behind him. “And vacancies in the last month. I want to know from where they pulled forces to fuel this endeavour. All previous movement restrictions are suspended until it is done.” 

Caught in the whirlwind of information and orders being exchanged, the others fell silent, or at least they faded from Caleb’s view.

Beauregard immediately turned to the Captain of the Crownsguard. “I’m gonna have to borrow some people. How quickly can you send out couriers?” The man blinked in surprise and a fair bit of confusion. 

“And Beauregard,” Caleb continued. She stopped, turning back to him. “Prioritize making contact with our people in Felderwin, or get confirmation of their deaths if that is not possible.” He chose his next words carefully, very aware they had an audience. “The Kryn targeted a farming city in winter. It was not to starve us.”

She grimaced, but nodded. “Right. Shakäste’s close. He can try and make contact.”

Caleb grunted an affirmative, flipping open his spell book and carefully turning through some of its earliest pages.

Stuttering on his words as he looked between the Lawmaster and the monk, the Captain said, “Ah, Lawmaster, do I…”

“Yes,” Orentha ordered, “whatever she needs.”

Beauregard immediately grabbed him by the plate armor and hauled him toward the far side of the room, talking quietly and animatedly as the rest of the room moved on. Meanwhile, Caleb began studying the stone surface of the table for imperfections that might disrupt the spell he had in mind, walking it’s circumference slowly and tracing his fingers along the surface in loose runes as he did, fading trails of silver streaking after them.

The High Richter, not to be forgotten, sighed loudly and disapprovingly, giving Caleb a distrusting, haughtily disapproving look the entire time he moved about. It was becoming more difficult for him to ignore, especially as he began to focus on the constraints of the spell. “He can’t just come in here,” she muttered bitterly to Orentha at her side, “and begin –”

“Expositor Dairon,” Caleb continued, mustering his patience and glancing up at her. The monk raised her brow in acknowledgement. “Any facilitation –”

“–  _ giving orders  _ like we don’t have protocols for these sort of council meetings.”

Caleb was very, very tired of being interrupted today. Exhausted, actually, and grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt. And the High Richter lacked all the misguided charm of an extravagant lavender tiefling, with no charismatic friends in the room to make Caleb’s patience worthwhile. But he also wasn’t in the mood to deal with the talking to he would get for killing someone today that didn’t at least have a go at him first. 

Thankfully, the Lawmaster was a wise enough woman to sense where this was going. “High Richter, that is enough,” she said sternly. “You are here as a formality. If you have nothing of value to add, then don’t.”

She glared daggers at just about everyone, but fell silent.

“Expositor,” he tried again, and put effort into making it sound like a genuine request rather than an order to ease any ruffled feathers. “Any facilitation you can offer Beauregard, I would appreciate it.” 

The woman may not have trusted or liked him, or any sort of authority very much for that matter (he wondered if that’s where Beauregard got it), but she was not stupid. They were on the same side. 

“Of course.”

“ _ Danke _ .”

She stepped silently over to where Beauregard was now in a hushed argument of some sort with the Captain, if how widely and quickly she was gesturing was anything to go by.

Caleb closed his eyes for a moment and shut it all out, inhaling deeply, focusing on quieting the impulses and emotions inside his head, on slowing his rabbiting heart rate. Too many things had happened too quickly. There were too many unknowns. Too much noise. Before throwing himself into the spell however, he finally looked up and across the table to Nott, who had sat silently through it all, small enough and quiet enough to almost disappear in the background. Perched on the arm of a chair looking as unhappy as he’d ever seen her, she looked up at him, eyes hollow, enough to give him pause. 

“Is there any reason they would be in Felderwin?” he asked quietly, any trace of giving orders gone from his tone as he watched Nott’s expression closely. 

“No,” she said, her rasping voice little in the vaulting room. “They haven’t left Druvenlode since we relocated them.”

He nodded, feeling something like relief blossom in his chest. “ _ Gut _ .” Then he didn’t have time to worry about what her expression meant. He still needed her. “I need you to contact every one of our birds in Xhorhas and the border and determine who is at fault for failing to learn this was coming,” he asked of her, a dark threat underlying his tone for whoever that poor creature was. 

Nott nodded curtly, but didn’t move otherwise, arms still curled around her knees. She looked at Caleb hard, meeting his questioning gaze directly, determination in her eyes. “After you do it.” 

He exhaled heavily. “Are you certain you want to see –”

“Do what?” that same voice, bitter with resent demanded. “I have already voiced my objections to this  _ creature  _ being –”

The flames of the wall sconces flickered low, nearly extinguishing as raw displeasure rippled through Caleb’s chest, the magic he was already summoning forth tugging dangerously at the fiber of his being. Contrary to popular belief, anger was not the best means of empowering or channeling arcane will. It was how one lost control. His hands would’ve been shaking if they weren’t gripping the chairback hard enough to hurt. Too much noise.  _ Too much noise. _

Jaw tight, he wasn’t sure what visibly flickered across his face but sure it wasn’t good as he rotated to face the woman before he properly knew what he was doing, only to be confronted by a wall of blue which wasn’t there before. Beauregard was suddenly planted before him. Arms hanging loosely at her sides, she said nothing. But the look in her eyes, wide and pleading as much as they were a warning against his own impulses, said plenty. 

He forced himself to breathe.

She was right. She knew it, and so did he.

The air rattled in his lungs as he inhaled, slowly, and exhaled.

And so rather than deal with it, or with anyone in this room where he no longer wanted to be, Caleb threw himself into the spell. Leaning over the table and placing both hands flat on the polished stone surface, he began to recite a low chant under his breath, letting his senses and concerns narrow to focus solely on the shiver of the arcane weaving through his chest and flying like sparks over his skin as the transmutation immediately began to take effect. Smooth grey stone bloomed in gleaming plates of silver rippling out from his fingertips. Pooling and racing like spilled water, the silver sheen poured across the table in every direction, provoking murmurs and subtle shifting around the room that Caleb studiously ignored as he concentrated instead on the strain of shaping the spell beyond its usual parameters. 

He felt its completion after a minute’s concentration before he saw it, pulling away from the great mirror extending before him with a deep breath, opening his eyes. He fumbled for a second with his component pouch, pulling forth a pinch of gold dust before pausing, mid thought. Looking back over his shoulder, Beauregard stood watching a step away, in exactly the same place. He swallowed dryly. “If you would not mind,” he asked, sounding small even to his own ears. “I will not be entirely here.”

She didn’t say anything in response, only took a step up beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder and kept it there, expression resolute. It caught him a little by surprise if he was being honest, not precisely what he expected, but he did not turn it down. He refused to allow himself to overthink it either, or the narrowed look Dairon sent Beauregard’s way, only sparing one last glance toward Nott before throwing himself into the scry spell, but she watched him with golden eyes wide and expectant, not about to be dissuaded.

Caleb’s own eyes went white before he closed them again, replacing both hands on the silvered surface of the table. Murmuring the scry incantation quietly, he focused on the image of Felderwin as he knew it in his mind. Gold flakes painted his fingertips and scattered in a wind that had not previously been present in the room, rapidly gathering and lifting, propelling his senses through the darkened sky and, willing it to pour forth across the focus, the mirror he had created, painting that vision in broad strokes across the darkening silver for the rest to see. Jettisoned forward, the image gained clarity and focus until a city in the foothills from a bird’s eye view revealed itself: Felderwin, half concealed by dark plumes of smoke and still-burning flames that consumed buildings and dry fields whole.

There was movement there too, beyond the flames. Dark shapes, bodies gaining definition as they moved quickly in the semi-order that established itself after chaos. Two distinct patterns of movement became apparent, that clustered pace of soldiers and the darting flight of civilians. Though with the actual onslaught seemingly over, and no carapace-clad Kryn soldiers to be seen, the flurry of activity from both groups seemed wholly intent now on suppressing the blaze as it grew outward from a concise point near the center of the town. Orange light painted the room and the insides of Caleb’s eyelids as the image grew closer, the outskirts of the blurred periphery grey with ash and nightfall and the limitations of the spell as it continued to adjust. 

But quickly, the spell settled.

And quickly, the city burned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Eventually it was quiet again. That realization took a moment to settle, and Caleb breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

His evening had been consumed by casting and recasting the scry spell until his bones ached with it. He saw cities, garrisons, forts, locations noteworthy and not, large and small, obvious targets and as unexpected as Felderwin, everything on the map between Rexxentrum and Xhorhas which he was able to envision or recall a memory of in order to ensure this was not merely the beginning of a larger coordinated offense or invasion. When he had burned through everything he had left, even taking the additional time to ritual cast when the urgency subsided and having long since spared the thirty or so minutes it took to recollect himself and recover what grasp he could on the thread of arcane energy humming down his spine, the only real relief to be found was the certainty that, at least for now, Felderwin was unique.

But that was not enough. That cycle of casting and watching and recasting was occasionally disrupted by a barrage of sending spells, both those he made and the ones he received, as word of the situation spread. Among the ranking military and one or two of his own agents stationed along the border whom he consulted, there were the voices of his fellow members of the Assembly reaching his ears, some demanding more kindly than others that he explain why he provided no warning of this. To that, he had little response but to remind them that divination was not his specialty, and more importantly, his people were backchanneling as they spoke and would have palatable information soon. 

They accused him of stalling. Of avoiding the question, feeding them the same lines he provided the others, and in truth he could not disagree. He did not have an answer. None were more displeased about that than he. 

Even between the scrying and the sending, there was Beauregard disappearing and reappearing from the room in unpredictable intervals to relay scraps of information as she received them. It wasn’t much. Across the Cobalt Soul’s people in the field, the Crownsguard and military’s resources and thoroughfares of communication, even the reconnaissance networks she, Nott, and Caleb had created – no one had anything beyond a small sliver of the larger picture. It was still too early. 

And if all of that were not enough, the anxious voice in his own head accosted him, irrationally worrying over mistakes he knew he did not make. He did not cause this. He did not overlook this. He did not  _ fail.  _ But neither was this simply a brutal war running its course. Someone was working against him, of that he was sure.

Elbows on the table supporting his weight, head in his hands and hair falling loose around his face, he rubbed gently as his temples.

But, sitting alone at the silvered table in the empty, dim chamber of the Hall, eventually that voice faded too, drowned out by the buzz of exhaustion wearing away at his resolve to even sit upright. It was not just the casting. It was the sleep that had evaded him; the anger, and panic; the fear and frustration that left him raw; the not knowing, the disgust for not knowing; the frantic calculations, the  _ thinking _ , and doubting. The distrust. 

And so when there was nothing more – nothing more to do, to give, to explain, or find, or feel, when his mind was incapable of wandering any more, there was just that. There was silence. 

Caleb straightened up, and for a moment just breathed. Splaying one hand flat against the cool, smooth surface of the table, he fiddled with the twisted bit of copper wire in the other, turning it over and over between his fingers. He stared blankly at the silver sheen beneath his hand, temporary, already beginning to fade and revert to grey stone around the edges.  

He lifted the wire before he quite knew why, except that was a lie. He lifted it and muttered a quiet word before he could reasonably change his mind.

Sending was a relatively simple spell, but it tugged at his gut uncomfortably, taking hold and hovering until he gave it the words it was waiting for. 

“ _ Hallo _ , Caduceus,” he exhaled, closing his eyes. “I… hope you are well. And that I am not, er, interrupting.” He swallowed, already lost. “I, hm, wanted to check in. Ask if anything happened since I left,” he lied.

There was a pause, and the tension of the spell faded, replaced by Caduceus’ deep, gentle baritone as if he stood right by Caleb’s shoulder. 

“Mr. Caleb,” Caduceus responded, sounding a mix of pleasantly surprised and genuinely delighted in that mild way he carried himself. “It’s wonderful to hear from you – not interrupting at all. I was just watching over the garden. A lot’s happened, but you must –” Hitting its limit, the spell faded.

Caleb chuckled, little more than a huff of breath and a fond quirk at the corner of his lips. Caduceus would never change, and Caleb was fine with that. His thought was interrupted though, a surprised note escaping the back of his throat when the cleric’s voice returned to him a few seconds later, by no magic of his own.

“You sound tired,” he remarked casually, a little sympathetic. “I’ve got this. Heard about Felderwin today. Rexxentrum’s under curfew, but the soldiers haven’t been sent out. Mostly precaution I think.”

Nodding along to an empty room, this was not new information. “ _ Ja _ , sounds right,” Caleb sighed. Trying to sound less tired than he was would be pointless. “I suppose you will be staying in Rexxentrum for a while then…” he said, words half laced with a question but uncertain if Caduceus intended to recast sending to respond. “I wanted –” he stopped himself, counting his words carefully. “I am sorry, for leaving without coming by.”

There was another pause that left Caleb with nothing but the hollow room and the silence, but then Caduceus spoke again, and something akin to relief fluttered in Caleb’s chest. He did not dwell on it.

“Don’t know, there’s work to do on the front,” he said by way of answering Caleb’s question. For the cleric, “work” meant tending to the war dead. “But work here too – people here need a little hope.” There was a pause, long enough for Caleb to think he might have finished. “Sometimes, just someone to talk to.”

Caleb breathed out, letting it wash over him. “Caduceus, friend,” he said, slowly. “You are… transparent. But, perhaps as am I. Send word, if you do go. Stay safe.” He smiled faintly, imagining the firbolg walking along his plants at night. “Say hello to your garden for me.”

Caleb was content with his goodbye, and so he was a little surprised when he heard Caduceus’ voice one more time creep up in the back of his mind. “I already have,” he assured him, light humor coloring his words. “Stay safe yourself. But I’m not worried. Beau has a good head on her shoulders. Try and get some sleep. Goodnight, Caleb.”

Caleb swallowed tightly. “Goodnight, Caduceus... I promise I will try.”

And with that, he sat in silence until he felt the spell fade.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Between the four of them, they’d hoped they would run into Widogast again that night.

For no other reason, Fjord reassured himself – because his existential guilt from that morning was still trying to throttle him – than because if one thing was made obvious by how fuckin’ quick people jumped to get out of his way as he stormed out of there, it was that Widogast held some sway around here.

“Fjooord,” Jester complained, sounding like she was dying. And she hadn’t tried anything since ineffectively scaling a column in an attempt to reach a window in the great hall, so in a way, she was. She lay stretched across the bench beneath the window where they had found a quiet corner in a less trafficked hallway just shy of the smaller east door. The guards stationed there weren’t letting anyone through, but as soon as they had an opening to make a break for it, they were sure as hell taking it. “It’s been  _ hours _ ,” she whined accurately, flinging her forearm over her eyes dramatically. “Make them let us leave.”

“I know. Would if I could, Jessie.” He paced slowly back and forth along the short stretch of corridor, from the corner where it turned deeper into the King’s Hall to the end where the hallway opened up into a small room where two other corridors met, with the exit and its two guards at the other side. “Tried that, got nowhere.”

Molly dodged around him, eyes up and locked on the scimitar he precariously balanced on the tip of one clawed finger. “Doesn’t mean we won’t complain about it,” he said as he stepped one way then the other to keep the sword upright, his anxiety showing itself in how at ease he pretended to be.

“I know that, too,” Fjord sighed, making it to the end of his stretch and so turning sharply on his heel, walking back. “They’ll let up the curfew soon. As soon as they figure out that nobody’s actually attacking the fuckin’ city,” he clipped, unable to help his own frustration bleeding through. His nerves were fried, being caged in like this. Even if no one seemed to give a damn about them, as evidenced by the fact they could wander just about anywhere so long as it wasn’t outside.

“That sort of thing is usually pretty obvious,” Yasha said quietly. “Guards must be pretty inept if they haven’t figured that out by now.” She sat at the end of Jester’s bench, slowly spinning her greatsword on its point in a groove in the stonework between her feet. 

“Yeah, well. You’d think.”

From what they could glean from the hurried conversations of passing guards and officials, along with what Fjord overheard and what little explanation they got out of the guards stationed at the doors of the Hall rigorously enforcing the temporary curfew to clear the streets, the Empire was under attack. But to what scale, or exactly where, or for how long, they couldn’t tell. Still, that everyone seemed to believe an attack on Zadash was possible, despite its location damn near the heart of the Empire, was enough to make them nervous.

Nervous enough to almost jump at the dull metallic echo of guards’ coming down the corridor, even if they’d been hearing it all evening, camped out in the King’s Hall like they were. Breaking his pacing, Fjord turned and went to peek around the corner and get a glimpse at who was coming, perhaps – they could hope – to lift the curfew, or more likely to rotate out the guards stationed at the door.

Entertaining the very distant possibility of running into Widogast again, just as they entertained every fantasy of escaping this damned building, was one thing; literally colliding with the man as he came around the corner far more quietly than his Righteous Brand guards a good many paces behind him – not hard enough to knock anything more than a startled grunt from him but Widogast stumbled regardless – was a separate thing entirely.

“Fuck,” Fjord blurted out, apologizing as he backpedaled and only just catalogued the red hair and dark tunic and blue eyes blinking at him like he hadn’t quite caught up and – _fuck_ – realized exactly who he’d run into.

Molly’s scimitar clamored as it hit the floor.

Widogast reeled back, stumbling over his own feet a little clumsily and catching himself against the wall. His hair was loose for the first time Fjord had seen him, hanging messily about his face just past jaw length. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled. And suddenly, there was the woman in blue robes, Beauregard she’d called herself, standing beside him. For a moment her hand hovered halfway to his elbow as if to steady him, but as he righted himself she withdrew it. 

“ _ Bitte _ , I –” Widogast’s mumbled beginning of an apology cut off, eyes narrowing at Fjord and darting past him to the others now watching with interest. 

Widogast straightened up and seemed to consciously recollect himself, lifting a hand to brush his hair back just as his guards, only six of them this time, caught up and appraised the odd tension in the hallway. 

“Archmage,” one of them addressed, “is there an issue?”

He exhaled heavily. “No.” And only then it dawned on Fjord how worn down he looked, a startling physical difference from how he’d appeared and carried himself mere hours ago. Widogast motioned past them down the corridor, toward the east doors. “Continue. Please,” he added.

Slow to heed the request, they began walking again.

“May I ask what you are doing here?” he intoned, and there was a rough quality to his voice that made some small part of Fjord’s brain hum before he quashed the memory it brought back.

“We  _ can’t leave _ ,” Jester stressed, swinging her legs off the bench and back to the floor as she leaned forward, looking hopefully at him. “They’re not letting  _ anyone  _ leave. But I bet  _ you  _ can make them let us leave.”

“Jester, please.” Fjord motioned for her to slow down. Not that he didn’t have the same idea, but she came on a little strong. 

Widogast glanced across at Beauregard, mouth pursed and brow furrowed in a question. “Right,” she sighed, scrubbing a hand over her eyes. “The Lawmaster has the city under curfew, remember?”

“Ah,” he sighed. “Right. That is… obnoxious.”

“That’s one word for it, sure,” Fjord said, leaning against the wall. 

He hummed absently in agreement, staring off into space for a moment as he considered it. A frown slowly pulled across his face, and he turned back to the monk. “Then how have you been leaving?”

“I’m not quite as good as Nott,” she said, and it took Fjord a second to realize that was someone’s name she said. “I bullied the Captain into giving me his little crest thing,” she admitted, tapping at her own collar where a medal or other regalia might go, “so I could come and go, official business and all that.”

“Well, do you still have it?” he asked.

“He made me give it back.”

Widogast fell silent, a deep crease between his eyebrows, biting at the inside of his cheek.

“So?” Jester began again, leaning forward on her knees and looking at them with intent, previous suggestion unanswered. 

He took a deep breath. “Hm,  _ ja _ okay.” Without any further elaboration as to what that meant, Widogast was walking forward again, neatly sidestepping Molly who’d since discretely collected his weapon off the ground and turning the corner into the room beyond. Beauregard stayed right at his side, but if Fjord read her right, and he believed that he did, it was out of concern, not some fashion of obedience. Those two had an odd relationship, which he hadn’t quite placed yet. 

They hurried after them, his guards having been waiting a polite distance away resuming their march along their flank. Jester looked relieved, grabbing Fjord’s wrist and pulling him close as she followed after. “Maybe you should play nice with this guy after all,” she whispered low and suggestively, waggling her eyebrows at him with a mischievous smile. She released him and skipped up ahead toward the front of the group before he could say or do anything beyond pull a confused expression in her wake.

The two Crownsguard standing in front of the doors stiffened at their approach, though did not immediately move aside or, better yet, open the doors for them as everyone else inside the building tended to. Fjord was more than a little curious about where this altercation would go, standing a few paces back with the others.

“Move,” Beauregard barked as they got closer, and though the two guards, a man and woman, glanced at each other uncertainly, they did not move.

“I apologize. So long as curfew is in effect, we cannot allow anyone without approval for official business to leave the Hall,” the woman said.

They came to a stop, Beauregard nearly coming toe to toe with the woman, head cocked curiously to the side. “Oh, well that’s a real shame,” she drew out, exhaling heavily. Looking over her shoulder at Widogast, there was a glint of something Fjord recognized in her eye, playing with her food before killing it. “Sorry Archmage,” she said, unsympathetic, “I don’t think you’re official enough for them.”

If it were possible, the two guards stiffened, eyes locked on a place straight ahead. Fjord clucked his tongue disapprovingly, stepping up beside Caleb.  _ Widogast _ , damn it. 

“That  _ is  _ a shame,” he agreed, crossing his arms.

“Hm, yes,” Widogast said, sounding bored. “And a first, I will admit.”

“So what sort of ‘approval’ exactly do you require?” Fjord asked.

“Um, written approval or other seal from the Lawmaster, or the Crown of course,” the man explained, voice nearly wavering. “Or –”

“Or the Cerberus Assembly?” Widogast added, with the sort of tone one reserved for definite intellectual inferiors.

“Yes, that too, my Lord – er, Archmage.”

Widogast sighed. “Written approval.”

“Yes, Archmage.”

“Well,” he said, sweeping a hand through is hair, eyes closed for just a moment which Fjord used to study his face, exhaustion evident. “That is easier than what I was about to do. Far less taxing.” He turned around to look at the rest of them. “Does anyone have something to write on?”

Jester’s hand darted into the air immediately, fishing into the haversack she always carried and retrieving her sketchbook with the other. It was only a matter of a few moments then for Widogast to take the stick of charcoal and the book open to a blank page that she offered, turning away again and scribbling something hastily down. He signed the bottom, signature in spidery and sharp lines, then touching the plain silver ring he wore with a muttered word, a small crest burned itself into the paper beside it. 

Turning the book outward and thrusting it at the guard, his expression neutral, Widogast waited all of five seconds for him to scan over what he’d written before snapping the book closed, holding it back for Jester to retrieve. She did so hastily, tucking it away and standing quietly beside Molly, the two exchanging a glance. 

“An Archmage of the Cerberus Assembly has just formally approved our passing. For  _ official business _ ,” he parroted back the words, for the first time a hint of a threat creeping up in his tone, “of course. Will there be anything else…” It was clear there was only one acceptable answer to that question.

“I think that’ll be all,” Beauregard answered for them as the man opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it.

“Very good, Archmage,” the man said tightly. “I apologize again for the inconvenience.”

Both guards turned and pushed the double doors outward, holding them open as Beauregard and Widogast, followed by the six soldiers and the four of Fjord’s party swept out into the dark without any further hindrance.

The courtyard outside was empty, and the night was still. Two wings of the hall extended on either side of the courtyard, a large fountain empty for the winter at the center with a ring of stones paving the ground around it. Flying buttresses interspersed with small trees arched over a similar cobblestone pathway and benches at its circumference.

Fjord took a deep breath of the cold air, craning his head back to look up at the sky, stars shielded by dark slowly rolling cloud cover. 

“It’s going to storm soon,” Yasha said to no one in particular, her voice carrying through the quiet.

Widogast paused and tilted his face up, ostensibly to study the clouds, but then simply closed his eyes and breathed for a long pause, shoulders relaxing, releasing the tension Fjord hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying. “Well then, I had better get you wherever you’re going sooner than later.”

“Ah, pardon?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow at that.

“There are patrols out, the city is under curfew, and you carry weapons openly. Barring any strenuous objection,” he said, opening his eyes and looking across the four of them, “I am not leaving you to your own devices.” It wasn’t an order. He seemed too tired, done with all of that, but it was a nice gesture regardless.

Molly looked like he was about to complain on the principal of the thing, but Fjord spoke first. “You make a good point,” he said amenably. “Thank you, that’s a very generous offer, given the late hour.”

The mage hummed noncommittally, pulling the hood of his cloak up and snapping four glowing orbs of light into existence, hovering and making a large ring around their party. As they began to walk, exiting the courtyard and moving down the few steps to the street below, he turned to the monk still beside him. “Beauregard, it is late. You should go, do whatever it is you do at this hour.”

“You sure?” Fjord felt a little bad, listening to the conversation clearly not meant for them, but he was also curious about the nature of their relationship, each interaction leaving him with more questions rather than answers.

“ _ Ja _ , it has been… a day. And you have been invaluable. Go. You are released,” he said, shooing her away with tired smile.

“That’s the nicest shit you’ve ever said to me,” she commented, smirking.

“Remember it then. Will not happen again.” 

With a grumbled “good night,” eventually Beauregard darted off into the dark.

Widogast turned back to Fjord and the others, walking a respectful number of paces back, and paused until Fjord caught up to walk alongside him. 

“To the Pillow Trove then?” he asked. He was met with a chorus of agreement. “ _ Gut _ , it is not far.” 

After that, they walked mostly in silence. Fjord could have made small talk, sure. Could have even had an enjoyable conversation. But this wasn’t like their walk through the gardens. With Molly, Yasha, and Jester trailing just a few steps behind them, three soldiers walking on either side, and the eerie silence of the abandoned streets, it felt awkward to try. Besides, Caleb – and it did seem right to think of him as Caleb in that moment, something about him softer around the edges since leaving the Hall, giving Fjord the impression that Archmage Widogast was the mask, one that had been chipped away at all day, and this was closer to the real thing. Anyways,  _ Caleb  _ seemed at peace with the silence.

Silence that, surprisingly, his crew let him have. Yasha seemed equally at peace, though that might’ve been because of the oncoming storm, but both Molly and Jester were being uncharacteristically well behaved – enough so that he made a mental note to check later that nothing untoward was in the makings.

In the nearly fifteen minutes it took to walk to the steps of the Pillow Trove, they encountered two patrols of Crownsguard, each more easily appeased than the last two at the King’s Hall. An escort of Righteous Brand soldiers and, though he wasn’t a recognizable figure it seemed, a brief introduction to the Archmage of Domestic Inquiry if necessary, seemed more than enough to quell their suspicions.

Fjord was left not quite knowing what to say when they finally reached their destinations, Caleb staring up at the shine of marble and gold in the faint moonlight. But then Caleb spoke, and it wasn’t what he expected, though he had no idea what that was.

“I would like to apologize that our meeting and your evenings were so, er, derailed,” he said carefully, not looking at any of them. “I would promise it will not happen again, but I am afraid I am not quite in control of these things, as today proved.”

“No worries,” Fjord brushed the unexpected apology off. “Makes for a good story if nothin’ else.”

“Buuut,” Jester interjected, sidling up close, “maybe next time won’t be so eventful? Or...long?”

Caleb nodded slightly, agreeing, though his dour demeanor didn’t shift. “Indeed. Speaking of next time, after what has happened, my hand has been forced and my priorities are, well, not what they were.”

“Ah.” It took a moment for what he meant to click. “I understand.”

“I will do my best to respect your time here, of course. But I cannot tell you with certainty when we may next meet. Things have yet to settle. Tomorrow I will likely return to Rexxentrum for at least a day or two, and I can predict little after that.”

“Right, well, unless we receive word otherwise, we’ll be around,” Fjord said.

Molly, who had been sidling up beside him during this conversation, grinned and fluttered his eyelashes at Caleb. “And entirely at your disposal, as it seems.”

Fjord sighed, rolling his eyes and with pushed Molly’s chin off of his shoulder.

“Mr. Tealeaf,” Caleb said seriously, and there was the tired beginnings of a smile at the corner of his lips. “I am sure you are a highly entertaining individual –”

“Well, thank you kindly.”

“– though you are terrible at reading the room.” That lazy, self-satisfied grin looked good on him.

Molly scoffed, then laughed, in part indignant and in slightly larger part delighted that Caleb had finally engaged his bullshit. “Consider it under advisement.”

“ _ Gut.  _ I say this only that you might improve.”

“We really don’t need that,” Fjord joked lightly, jostling Molly in the ribs.

“You’re all talking long-term goals,” Molly tisked, brushing past both of them on his way to the great gilded doors. “What we  _ need _ , is a drink. You lot coming?” he called over his shoulder.

Yasha plodded up the stairs wordlessly, Jester shouting to wait for her and skipping after them, but not before winking quite unsubtly at Fjord and giving him a broad grin and two thumbs up once Caleb’s back was to her. 

“Uh, you’ll have to excuse me,” Fjord muttered, stepping back toward the doors. “I have to supervise.”

“Of course. I will send Beauregard to inform you when I next –”

“Oi! My Lord Widogast,” Molly called from across the plaza, holding the door open wide for the others and making a sweeping gesture beckoning inside, golden light spilling outward into the night. “I believe we’re at that point in the night when you ask t–”

“That is tired and predictable,” Caleb interrupted, a spark of humor glinting in his eye despite himself. “You can do better, Mr. Tealeaf.”

Jester’s peel of laughter could be heard from inside, and Yasha patted Molly’s shoulder consolingly as she stepped past him through the threshold. Shaking his head, Molly gave up, turning and allowing the door to close behind him.

Caleb turned back to Fjord. “You mentioned supervision?” he asked, slight smirk still in place.

“Right, that,” he winced, starting to back away in the direction of the doors. “I’ll leave you to your night then. Thank you again.”

“Gute Nacht, Mr. Fjord.”

“And to you too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thank you to everyone else leaving kudos and comments, I eat sleep breathe those things, you guys are fantastic too. <3


	9. what loyalty means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recognize I've fallen into a posting schedule of a chapter each weekend, but I'll be away on holiday for half of this week. Rather than speculate about how much I'll be able to write, I'll just go ahead and decide now to push my next update back a week. Sorry lads, family calls.

It takes a certain intensity of flame to raze a building to the ground. 

And it must burn for some time, to produce a heat so unforgiving that it cracks the mortar between toppled masonry, leaving it a white crumbling powder to mingle with the fields of ash; to warp glass windows until they are bulbous and opaque; to leave brittle shells of black soot and carbon peeling off stone cellar floors; to leave little to no charcoal behind.

With this, Caleb was familiar. Familiar enough to know that, at some point, distinguishing wood ash from cremated remains became an impossible task, particularly when there were no blackened husks of plate armor, crumpled and melded in neat little grave markers to indicate where their owners’ fell. 

Caleb scuffed the bottom of his boot against one such hardened plate of black carbon peeling up from the foundation of what had been Felderwin’s single alchemist’s shop. He watched it go skittering across the stones to crumble and flake against a small melted hunk of metal, too folded in on itself to be certain of what it used to be. Perhaps a small tin teakettle. Or some other kitchen implement. Better than smoking heaps of armor. Always better than that.

He took a deep breath of the crisp winter air that had done nothing to quell the heat of the flames, tilting his head back and reminding himself to feel the sunlight for a moment. It was best to not get caught up in such places, with such thoughts that eventually verged so dangerously upon memories. Still, the small voice that he could never manage to shut off inside his head reminded him to be grateful there was no wind to kick up clouds of ash and debris; it was best to avoid breathing in the dead, where possible. 

The muscle in his jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding and mouth pulled in a hard, flat line. He hadn’t even  _ done  _ this. Yet in a way, as terrible as it was indirect, he had.

The alchemist’s shop had been all but leveled. The building where Nott had met her husband all those years ago when she was merely an apprentice alchemist and Caleb, a world away, still thought of Blumenthal as home, like an unfortunate amount of the rest of Felderwin, was destroyed. The evidence of his people’s work there had gone up in ash and smoke with it; research notes, test samples, and bodies alike. The cellar basement had survived, protected by an arcane lock. That, Shakäste had alerted him to. What scraps it contained were of no worth compared to the danger they posed should they fall like puzzle pieces into the wrong hands. He’d seen to it that those were destroyed himself.

This little unobtrusive shop lay at the very center of the Kryn’s attack on the city. The buildings and fields they burned around it, likely little more than a distraction. He did not blame the Dynasty; they protected their odd magic which defied all his own and his experts’ explanations fiercely, like everything else which was theirs. He blamed whichever loose thread in the tapestry he took such care in weaving, a decade in the making, had alerted the Dynasty of his research here. Intentional or otherwise, there was no other plausible explanation behind the attack. Caleb was, in that moment, certain of very little. But of that, there was no doubt.

Caleb opened his eyes to scan the sky, such a clear blue it mocked his sour mood below. Still, a not insubstantial part of him itched to shed his own skin and take flight, to leave his racing thoughts behind with the ruins and simply enjoy the sensation. But escaping his own head was such a rare luxury these days.

“Archmage,” one of his guards, Rhuidra, called to him from the roadside, just shy of the rubble upon which Caleb stood. “A missive for you.”

He exhaled heavily through his nose, trying not to let the displeasure flicker across his face. “From the Assembly?” he asked, hardly sounding like a question given how sure he was of the answer. 

He had spent the last two days answering correspondence from the body of his fellow mages and even a number of inquiries from the Crown’s advisors. Those were merely follow ups however. The three before that he had spent in Rexxentrum for a number of internal hearings, council meetings, and advisory boards with those same individuals. ever before in his life had he felt so thoroughly a captive, even counting the forty-eight hours he’d spent as a Kryn prisoner of war in his battlemage youth. 

And so, her answer came as all the more a surprise. “No, Archmage. From Zadash.”

His frown faltered, overshadowed by confusion. “From Zadash?” Caleb turned, beginning to pick his way carefully through the debris to where the half-orc woman stood in complete Righteous Brand regalia, a full head taller than him. 

“It bears the seal of the Lawmaster, yes.”

Small puffs of ash leapt into the air where his boots, which had gone grey with it, brushed through the dried grass killed by proximity to the heat. Hand outstretched, he grunted his thanks as she deposited the sealed envelope in his palm, turning it over to study it once before wasting no time in tearing it open. 

The note was not long, penned and signed off by the Lawmaster herself. Nor was it entirely complex. Yet he read it three times, his expression growing more and more complicated each time if the furrow of Rhuidra’s heavy brow and her almost tentative “Is there a problem, Archmage?” was anything to go by.

“I-” He stopped himself, staring down at the parchment in his hands as if it had any more answers to offer. He blinked a few times, at a genuine loss for words. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Possibly.”

Caleb re-folded the letter, tucking it away carefully inside his robes. He spared the ruins of the worst-hit blocks of Felderwin one more passing look, scanning the rubble and passing faces alike. Their darting eyes never lingered, looking at him and his entourage of guards fanned out around him with equal parts curiosity and confusion. And disinterest, surprisingly. There was a great deal of that for those that could bring themselves to care for little more than the charred bits and pieces of their lives they could pull from the rubble.

There was nothing left for him in Felderwin. And nothing more he could do for it, but stay out of its way as it healed.

“We are returning to Zadash.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord should’ve known. He should’ve  _ fuckin’ known _ .

As soon as Jester had put on that innocent smile, as soon as Molly started keeping a low profile, he should’ve cottoned on to what was happening. He should have nipped it in the bud, pulled it up by the roots, smothered it, stopped it, shut it down like the terrible idea it was before it got them into this mess. 

He blamed it on Caleb, being all brooding and disheveled and unguarded like that. He blamed it on himself, being distracted by that instead of paying attention to his own crewmates’s troublesome tendencies. But more than anyone, he blamed Jester for coming up with it, and Molly for joining in. 

“And don’t give me this ‘you didn’t have a choice bullshit’,” Fjord demanded, throat constricting and chest tight from the simmering panic that had been steadily burning hotter and higher since that morning. “You can tell the Traveller to stuff that up his ‒”

“Fjord,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“You had  _ every  _ choice, Jessie. You had ‒”

_ “ _ Fjord, lower your voice. People are gonna ‒”

“‒  _ so many  _ choices, and each one of them you used to make a  _ terrible  _ decision,” he stressed, but still Fjord didn’t think she was hearing him.

“Fjord,” she hissed, a low stage whisper of a shout. “Seriously, someone’s going to hear. We shouldn’t be talking about it here.”

“Everyone’s  _ already  _ heard Jester,” he hissed back. “This whole city’s on high fuckin’ alert and  _ that’s  _ when you decide to vandali‒”  _ Oof. _

The air escaped him in one fell swoop, Jester’s forearm pinning him against the elaborate wallpaper that stretched down the hallway of the Pillow Trove. He sucked in a breath, glowering at her darkly before guilt twisted in his gut like a knife at the look she gave him, her violet eyes welling with tears she angrily held back.

“I’ve already gotten an earful about it and all my  _ bad decisions,  _ okay Fjord? So maybe instead of beating me over the head with it again and again, you shut up so we can just focus on fixing it, okay?” Her fingers clenched around the hard edge of his leather armor, not so much pinning him there anymore as they were digging in for desperate purchase. “So maybe,” she said, firm in her frustration even as she wiped the back of her other hand across her eyes harshly. “Maybe we just can it for now until we’re somewhere a little more private.”

He didn’t try to push her away, or pull her in for that matter. It was clear she didn’t want to be comforted, at least not right then, not by him. 

“Alright, Jessie,” he said quietly. He was still in disbelief. Still frustrated himself. He was still worried about how they were going to resolve this, if they could. But, well, priorities and all. “Let’s just get upstairs, okay? Yasha should be back with Molly by now.” Given as long as he and Jester had to hole up inside a stable shed as guard patrols thinned, if they weren’t back by then, they’d be in serious trouble.

Jester avoided his eyes. “Okay,” she agreed, sounding utterly dejected.

She dropped her arm, and they continued on toward the staircase at the end of the hall, taking it up to their floor.

Perhaps he had given her an earful already. It was hard not to. He’d spent his entire trip from the Pentamarket to the East Outersteads rehearsing what he was going to say to her, his morning routine of idly watching merchants set up their stalls and early morning shoppers pursue their wares interrupted by her urgent arcane message, and for twenty-five words, a hell of a message it had been.

But first he’d donned his armor and run by the victory pits where Yasha had taken to training with a local mercenary group most mornings ‒ really it was part training, part staving off their attempts to recruit her ‒ and sent her to go collect Molly from where he’d run off toward the opposite side of the city. He and Jester had split ways, dangerous though probably advisable after nearly every guard in the city began looking for a pair of tieflings. The worst irony was, they had even taken the precaution of disguising themselves. They simply hadn’t expected the temple of Bahamut to come with an emergency anti-magic field.

At least they got away. At least no one got hurt. Though Fjord doubted the city guard could have kept the two tieflings in their custody anyway, it would’ve been far worse had they tried.

When Fjord unlocked the door to their cordoned-off little alcove, Jester pushed past and went toward her suite immediately, shoulders stiff, back straight, and tail lashing back and forth in short agitated bursts. He let her go calm down and collect herself. Either she’d come back when she was ready, or he’d send Yasha in to coax her out if not. 

Thankfully, it seemed Yasha, and by association Molly, had already made it back safely. After Jester darted past the open doorway to Fjord’s suite, Yasha stepped out into the narrow corridor, arms crossed as she looked after Jester first and then turned to look the opposite way, seeing Fjord. 

She nodded to him mutely, expression hard to read.

“Hey Yash. You find Molly okay?” he asked, knowing it was redundant because Yasha would not have returned without him, but the way she was looking at him, he needed to say something if only to break the silence.

“Yes. He’s in there,” she said, inclining her head toward the open doorway. 

“Any trouble?”

She thought about that for a few seconds before deciding on an answer. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Okay,” he exhaled, relieved that, at the very least, everyone was back together again. “Alright. We need to, uh. We need to talk this one through.” He felt his shoulders loosen for the first time in hours. Not that it lasted long.

“Yeah,” Yasha agreed, shifting her weight like she did when she had a hard time putting something to words.

“Yasha?”

“That’s actually what  _ he _ said,” she said slowly, still unworried, but she looked almost guilty.

“What?” Fjord really didn’t like that, fingers tightening to a fist around his absent falchion, a twitch away from summoning it to his hand. Still standing in the hallway, he looked around for any sort of danger. But Yasha didn’t even have her weapon over her shoulder, and she wouldn’t have let it out of her grip if there was any to be found. “What who said…” 

“Widogast.” 

Fjord’s stomach dropped. His face twisted with confusion and surprise and, ultimately, worry, at an utter loss for words.

“He’s inside,” Yasha said, tilting her head towards the open doorway once again. “I didn’t want to make him wait in the hallway. If he even would have. I hope that’s alright.”

Fjord took a shuddering breath, trying to mentally slow everything down as it seemed to spin out of control around him. He still hadn’t even worked the full story out of Jester. It had only been half a day, and Caleb hadn’t even been  _ in Zadash _ when all their troubles began as far as he knew, and now appearing in their own space like this ‒ Fjord was certain Caleb already knew more than he himself did, and that unnerved him terribly.

That Yasha was so entirely unconcerned was the only thing grounding him in that moment. 

“Fjord?” she prompted, brow furrowed. “Is that… okay?”

“Yeah, Yasha,” he said, remembering to breathe. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

She looked relieved, nodded. “Good,” she said. “I made tea.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mollymauk sat at a small table near the corner of the room, hands folded neatly in front of himself. He watched Caleb with interest, but remained silent.

Caleb lifted his steaming tea cup to sip gingerly, legs crossed and leaning back comfortably in his seat. The long table stretched before the empty fireplace, as cold and dark as the winter evening outside the row of tall windows along the back wall of the suite. His eyes wandered around the room as he took it in, in all its terrible grandeur.

He’d heard half the quiet conversation out in the hallway. The large capable woman who wielded the sword that had killed his predecessors, Yasha, had moved to stand in the open doorway when they heard them enter.

“I’ll be with Jester,” she’d said at the end of it, glancing between Caleb and Fjord. “If you need anything.” She directed that last part exclusively at Fjord, making eye contact that conveyed something silent. Precaution, Caleb thought, but he couldn’t be sure. She left without another word, her footsteps receding down the hallway.

Fjord hadn’t elected to join him at the table, instead choosing to stand in the middle of the carpet a few paces away with his arms folded and expression guarded as he looked long and hard at Caleb. Caleb smiled back politely, nothing remotely threatening, scratching idly at the thick scruff coming in along his jaw. 

It didn’t necessarily complement the dark circles that were beginning to form under his eyes, but Caleb was willing to forgive himself for that. It had been a long week.

“Molly,” Fjord addressed, eyes still locked on Caleb. Fjord was beginning to give him the distinct impression that he didn’t look away for the same reason one does not take their eyes off a snake in striking distance. “How about you go with her.” It wasn’t a request.

His suspicion was rather telling, not that it told him anything he hadn’t already put together.

Caleb raised an eyebrow at that, glancing across the room to where the tiefling sat staring at them both. Molly sucked in a breath as if to speak, but he hesitated at the sharp look Fjord leveled at him, closing his mouth. He rose to his feet wordlessly, gliding from the room without further protest.

Several seconds ticked by silently in the empty room, enough that even for as much as he controlled the situation, Caleb began to feel discomfort under Fjord’s heavy stare. 

“Have I offended you?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational.

Fjord blinked, perhaps surprised by the question, but otherwise didn’t move from where he looked down at him. “Have you done something I oughta be offended by?”

“Not that I am aware of.” He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs the other direction. “Unless you count my absence this past week, though I believe I explained and apologized for that.”

“You did,” Fjord agreed, nodding once. “So no, I don’t think you have. Why do you ask?”

“Because by the way you are looking at me,” Caleb said slowly, glancing up at Fjord through is eyelashes as he held the tea to his lower lip, reveling in the warmth of it, “I have done  _ something  _ to displease you. I should like to know what.” 

Fjord glanced down, taking his eyes off him perhaps for the first time since he’d entered the room. Exhaling heavily, Fjord’s shoulders fell an inch, some of that guarded posture falling with them. When his gaze returned, he appeared slightly more at ease, slightly more himself, at least as Caleb had met him.

“No, you hav‒ You just surprised me is all. I thought that monk woman ‒ Beauregard ‒ would drop by when you were ready to talk again. Not ‒” Fjord jerked his chin toward Caleb. “You.”

“Ah. I will try not to take offense,” Caleb joked halfheartedly, a coy smirk curling at the corners of lips. 

From Fjord’s heavy exhale, it seemed to take quite a bit of energy to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “That came out wrong. You know what I mean.”

“Hm. Perhaps.” A beat of silence passed, more comfortable than the last one. Slowly, Caleb’s brow furrowed, and he cocked his head to the side slightly as he looked Fjord up and down where he stood. “You are covered in mud,” he observed, drawing no judgement in his tone, only voicing his mild confusion.

“A bit,” Fjord nodded, arms still crossed, though his fingers tightened around the edges of his bracers. Discomfort? Self-consciousness? He could not quite tell. “It seems.”

“I see.” He lifted his cup for another sip, swirling the bitter liquid around his mouth with a pleased hum. Over the rim of it, Caleb let himself look. He had yet to see the pirate captain in armor before ‒ a set of rough studded leathers that were clearly well cared for, yet which had also clearly seen good use ‒ and his curiosity was piqued. It suited him, he decided. The armor, that is. Not so much the mud.

“Do you want to be?” Caleb asked after letting the silence stretch for a moment, still tracking the anxious twitching of clenched muscles in Fjord’s neck and forearms. 

“Want to be…” Fjord raised an eyebrow, seeking clarification. 

“Covered in mud?” A touch of amusement colored his words. He lowered his cup, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he blinked slowly at Fjord if only to demonstrate he was willing to wait for an answer.

“Ah, no, not particularly?” was Fjord’s response, his brow pinched.

“Hm.” Caleb flicked his wrist with his free hand, the mud splatter and grime vanishing from Fjord’s armor with the cold snap of prestidigitation. The half-orc stiffened, almost stopping himself from flinching at the gesture and the spell as it rapidly took effect, but not quite. “That is better, would you not agree?” Caleb purred in appreciation at his own work, glancing up at Fjord over the lip of tea cup, blowing over it gently before taking another small sip. A mottled brownish-red flush crept over the sea captain’s face and neck. 

Very interesting.

Caleb had put quite a lot of thought into his interactions with the southerners over the past week. Call it a distraction, but a much needed one at times. At some point, the usual boundaries of social propriety, which Caleb so respected for the distance they granted, began to crumble when it came to these people. Perhaps the southerners were the ones to decide they did not apply to him, if they were aware such rules existed in the first place. But if they were going to play this game, and he was made to be a participant, he intended to win. Call it a competitive streak. 

But from  _ where  _ it originated… Cultural difference? An active disrespect for authority? Reckless honesty? Sheer force of personality? That, he had yet to determine.

Fjord cleared his throat where he still stood rooted in place, giving a valiant effort at collecting himself. “Sure. Thanks,” he said, volume falling off in a mumble. He cleared his throat. “So, you done fuckin’ with me now? Or would you be so kind as to explain what it is that you want.” 

Oh, gods above and below. Caleb never was good at passing up opportunities when they presented themselves.

“Oh, Captain Fjord,” he said around the sharp grin that curled across his lips, feeling quite like the cat that got the cream. He dropped his tone into something plausibly serious, leaning forward as he addressed the man. “I have not  _ begun  _ fucking with you.” Straightening in his chair, a little more proper, he adopted a more innocent façade. “I have not even finished my tea yet.”

And that, that was probably a step too far. But from the state of that flush and how Fjord’s throat worked to swallow dryly, it had accomplished something interesting at least. Caleb tracked the ruddy crawl over Fjord’s cheeks and down his throat, into the collar of his armor. 

He hummed in appraisal. All very interesting.

Fjord’s eyes were locked ahead on the wall somewhere, clearing his throat and trying with marginal success to school his expression into something more neutral, but his words still wavered an octave higher. “Uh-hm, Pardon?”

Caleb chuckled, little more than a huff of breath and a self-satisfied grin. “I was in Felderwin. This morning,” Caleb stated, moving on. He set his cup aside, rising to his feet and slowly pacing around the table. His fingers trailed lightly along the ornate grooves in the edge as he moved. “Imagine my surprise,” he continued, glancing sideways at Fjord, “when I learned someone had desecrated the Temple of Bahamut here in Zadash.”

“Oh,” Fjord laughed awkwardly, not quite recovered. “I can imagine.”

“Concerning, is it not? That one would paint the Platinum Dragon’s effigy in a hue of chromatic colors?” He continued his slow meander around the circumference of the room. Fjord didn’t answer him, only watched with uncertainty, his eyes following Caleb’s movement.

Perhaps it was cruel, dragging it out like this. It would have been more cruel to pretend he was angry though, or to imply he that he had yet to determine what had happened. After all, his very presence gave away the fact that he knew exactly what party was responsible. So he did not feel entirely bad for it.

Caleb stopped at the window, pausing to look out over the city already lit up in the encroaching dark. Still Fjord said nothing, so he continued. “There is speculation, that the two tieflings seen fleeing the temple are cultists of Tiamat. That has the city up in arms,” he glanced sideways at Fjord and his previously mud-splattered armor, “as I am sure you have noticed.”

“Two tieflings, huh?” His tone was difficult to read, though what shift Caleb detected seemed an inclination toward worming more information out of him. 

“Yes,” Caleb said. “A priestess and two guards on patrol seemed to have believed so, though their accounts are… partly conflicting.” He turned away from the window, continuing his slow, deliberate pacing until he came around Fjord’s side where he still stood planted in the middle of the carpet, arms crossed and watching Caleb with a guarded look. Caleb circled around him on his way back to his seat, passing closer than was entirely necessary, but he liked seeing Fjord twitch at the faint brush of his shoulder. 

“I see,” Fjord said, expression annoyingly neutral. 

“I do not believe you do,” Caleb admitted. “The Lawmaster is stressed and under pressure by the city’s religious community. There is a rumor that the Order of Bahamut will send representatives from Vasselheim to conduct a formal inquiry. She is eager to see it handled quickly and quietly.”

Fjord’s weight shifted, the only hint that this information caused him anxiety. “This seems a little blown out of proportion to me,” he countered, tone unworried, though Caleb could see the gears turning in his head. He did not believe Fjord to be a stupid man, by any means.

Caleb rolled his eyes, not that Fjord saw it over his shoulder. “If that were the extent of it,” he sighed, “I would not have gone to the trouble of cleaning the ash off my boots and returning to Zadash.”

There was a beat of silence, then Fjord rotated in place to face him, his brow heavy and eyes mistrusting. Meeting his gaze forced Caleb to tilt his chin up to make up for the annoying few inches of height the half-orc held on him. More surprising still, Fjord moved a half-step nearer, bringing him closer than Caleb was prepared for. He felt his spine straighten and lock, trying to give himself precious few inches of space without actually stepping backward. A small shapeless noise escaped the back of his throat before he could strangle it, struck by the sudden proximity.

“Am I supposed to ask why you did then, Caleb?” Fjord asked, a low rumble. “Or were you gonna tell me?”

A tense mote of silence hung in the scant distance between them. Caleb took a shallow breath, righting himself with a small, tight smile. “It would seem the vandals gained private access to the Temple Sepulcher under guise of being emissaries from Vasselheim ‒ hence the call for an inquiry,” he explained quickly. He took a decisive step backward, coming to rest against the table where he leaned his hips against it rather than return to his chair, his hands curled around the edge of the dark oak at either side of him.

“They managed this,” Caleb continued while watching Fjord’s expression closely, because while he knew plenty, and had learned plenty more from Fjord and his compatriot’s reactions while he’d been there, whether Fjord was aware of this next part, Caleb was unsure. “By providing a writ of passage, signed by an Archmage of the Cerberus Assembly.” Fjord’s jaw tightened, face bearing a stony expression. “Would you care to guess which one, Fjord? It is not hard. There are only nine of us.”

Well then. Of course, there was no telling how accomplished of a liar the man was; he had already proven himself a fast talker and a persuasive one at that. But this entire affair struck Caleb as a rather unorganized, culturally insensitive prank gone awry anyway. He doubted Fjord had anything to do with it beyond helping pull his friends out of the mess afterward.

Fjord scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. 

“The curious thing is, I never issued a writ of passage for anyone from Vasselheim.”

“Alright,” Fjord sighed, holding an appeasing hand up to stop where this was going. “We both know what you’re getting at.”

“That makes this particular document a forgery.”

“I can get Jester in here ‒” The offer went ignored.

“A forgery, however, requires a writing sample, a signature, a seal,” Caleb continued right along, needlessly elaborating on his thought process.

“We gonna go through this whole thing?” the half-orc drawled slightly, anxiety bleeding away and replaced with something a little more exhausted, and a little more at ease as Caleb’s intentions, while he still had not made them clear, became more apparent. If he was going to have anyone arrested or worse, he would have done it already.

“Thank you for asking. Yes we are, Fjord,” Caleb said with a brightness he didn’t feel, baring his teeth more than he was smiling at this point. Frustration, though? Yes. A great deal of annoyance? Absolutely. This was petty  _ Schwachsinn _ he shouldn’t have had to intervene in.

“May I ask why?”

“Because if I had to go through this nonsense, so do you,” Caleb said, not without a little resentment. “Now as you might imagine, I keep that sort of documentation, say, close to the chest for this precise reason.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he sighed. Fjord walked to the couch a few paces away, a lazy shuffling gait. He dropped into it heavily.

“See, all of this occured to me,” Caleb said, “at right about the moment I recalled Ms. Lavorre volunteering her book as ‒ as ‒” Fjord was busy not paying attention as he started to kick off his boots and‒ and he was unbuckling clasps and‒ pulling at his armor. Caleb frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I just figured if this was gonna take a while for you to get to the point,” Fjord said, and there went his gauntlets onto the floor, calloused hands and corded forearms underneath working at the buckles and straps at his sides now. Caleb’s eyes tracked their movement, at a loss. “Might as well get comfy.” He paused, glancing up at Caleb. “You certainly did.” 

Caleb shifted suddenly uncomfortable where he leaned against the table, clasping his hands together in his lap.

Fjord raised an eyebrow at him, not pausing as he pulled deftly at the clasps on his breastplate. “I apologize if that’s not quite the decorum you’re accustomed to. But if it offends you, you’re more than welcome to leave.” There was definitely a glint of something akin to retaliation in his eyes, looking up at Caleb with a slight grin of his own as he twisted in his seat to pull the leather pieces off of him.

“The  _ point _ ,” Caleb grit out, jaw tight, “is I should very much like to see Ms. Lavorre’s book now. And,” he added, “I do not think you want me to do that.”

“No?” He did a good job of imitating surprise. “Why not?” With a roll of Fjord’s broad shoulders, he shrugged off the plated leather that covered his chest and shoulders, rain and sweat-dampened linen shirt clinging to his chest underneath, rising and falling with each breath. Which was plainly unfair, frankly, because Caleb was running out of ways to escalate this odd standoff.

“Because  _ whoever  _ those two tieflings are,” he explained, abusing what plausible deniability he had even as the warning in his tone became all the more pointedly obvious, “they should know that while public vandalism is one thing, impersonating the likeness or orders of such a ranking official is an entirely separate class of high crime altogether.”

That got Fjord to pause in his movements for a moment, the tip of his tongue swiping over his lower lip. “Is it.”

“Indeed,” he said flatly, crossing his arms. “That makes the Lawmaster’s request to discuss these events with me… particularly troubling.” 

There was another moment of silence, Fjord running his blunt nails through the close-cropped hair at the back of his head. His face twisted into a complicated expression, glancing back up at Caleb. “One might’ve thought you’d lead with that.”

“But we were having such a pleasant conversation.”

“If it’s any consolation ‒”

“It is not.”

“I gave ‘em a stern talking to.”

Caleb laughed, cold and humorless, disbelief and the absurdity of it all forcing its way out of his chest. “Oh, wonderful.  _ Danke schön _ , that fixes everything,” he deadpanned.

Fjord smiled, a little helpless. “That sarcasm I detect?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “I was gone for one week,” he stated. “Not even that.  _ Six days _ , if you count today.”

“I recognize that probably doesn’t look good, coming from your end o’ things,” Fjord placated, holding his hands up. “But in my defense, that’s a lot longer than I’ve usually been able to hold ‘em off of a bad idea when they’re bored.”

“You‒ that ‒” Has was almost gaping, wide eyed and indignant. “Do you have any idea what position this puts me in?” he demanded.

“Look, Caleb,” Fjord tried again. “Do you want the honest answer or the one that’ll make you feel better?”

“ _ Was? _ ” The candles and torch light flickered, his hands clenching around the edge of the table.

“Keep your voice down.”

Caleb stared at him unblinking with utter affront written across his face, wondering for a brief moment if he had been speaking a different language for their entire conversation. Something had seriously been lost in translation. He would’ve been outraged if he were not too genuinely perplexed by this utter dismissal.

“I’m sorry,” Fjord backtracked slowly, leaning on his elbows over his knees. “You’re right, obviously. We both know that. I’m sure you’re in an awkward spot, having to explain that away to the Lawmaster while we’re not even technically meant to be here.” 

Caleb pushed away from the table and turned his back on Fjord as he stalked back to the window. He itched to bury his hands in Frumpkin’s fur, balling them up at his sides instead. Gazing out it, his glowering reflection looked back in the darkened glass. “That is only the half of it.”

“And I’m sorry for it. But if I’m being completely honest,” Fjord continued, and to his merit, he sounded it. “I don’t know exactly what you want from me. You want me to apologize for their actions? I will. I sure as hell regret them myself. But they’re still my people, just like that Beau woman and the little goblin are yours ‒” and Caleb wasn’t sure how he felt about that assessment ‒ “so I’m gonna defend ‘em, even though I know they were in the wrong here, clearly.” There was a heavy pause. “I know we come from very different worlds ‒ hell, that’s an understatement. But that’s just how it is,” he ended, tone resolute.

Caleb exhaled, long and measured through his nose, closing his eyes. 

There was something in that statement that was appealing in its simplicity. To look out for oneself and one’s own, the rest of the world and its politics be damned. Something appealing in its certainty. But a quaint and outdated philosophy nonetheless. Perhaps it could run a ship, but it could not run a village. And Caleb was trying to run an empire.

With a twist of his will Frumpkin was purring up a storm in his arms, cradled against his chest, paws on top of his shoulder and head nudging beneath Caleb’s chin. He heard a muffled note of surprise from the half-orc behind him, but other than that, he did not address the magic cat.

Feeling all the week’s anxieties and sleepless nights come crashing back at once, his voice came out thick, accent thicker. “Not so different worlds,” Caleb assessed, almost quiet, counting the lanterns flickering in the city below. “I understand loyalty. It is admirable, in a way. Stupid,  _ ja _ ,” and he heard Fjord huff in amusement. “But also admirable.”

He heard Fjord rise from the couch, crossing the carpet between them. He felt more than heard the man come to a stop at his shoulder, almost touching. “Then what did you come here for?” the sea captain asked, looking to him for an answer.

In the dark glass of the window pane, Caleb found Fjord’s reflection at his side, meeting his gaze. There was a long pause, but the tension had already bled out of the room. This was something else. This was reaching an understanding. “Do you want the honest answer,” he asked slowly, the ghost of a hapless grin at the edge of his mouth as he repeated his words back to him. “Or the one that will make you feel better?”

Fjord’s reflection grinned, pleased. “Surprise me.”

Caleb rotated in place, meeting his gaze directly. “Because I hoped you would piss me off enough that I would turn you four over to the Lawmaster, and be done with this.”

Fjord raised an eyebrow brow, wry grin twisting his mouth. “I see. And how’d I do?”

Caleb scritched Frumpkin behind the ears, the image juxtaposed with the unimpressed glare he treated Fjord to. Damn him.  _ Verdammt noch mal _ . And there he was again, arriving at the same conclusion he had agonized over with Beauregard and a bottle of too-expensive wine.

“I think you are a bastard,” Caleb stated bluntly, and Fjord snorted, finding that funny. “But an interesting one, I will give you that.”

Fjord sported an annoyingly self-assured grin for having just been insulted to his face, but then, perhaps the purring cat in Caleb’s arms detracted from some of the effect. “Enough of a bastard to be worth knowing then?” he asked, leaning forward into Caleb’s space with his right hand braced against the wall adjacent Caleb’s head. 

Caleb pursed his lips, unimpressed and disapproving. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I will reserve judgement on that.”

Fjord half shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

“You will,” Caleb agreed. “You do not have much of a choice otherwise.”

“If I might ask though,” he probed, flashing Caleb a charming smile. As a whole, it was very transparent. “What exactly are you planning on telling the Lawmaster?”

Caleb hummed as if considering it, unable to help the small twitch of the corner of his mouth. “I already had that meeting. Did I not mention that?” he asked, equally innocent.

Fjord’s smile tightened noticeably. “Nope,” he said, “musta forgot to mention that part.”

“Hm, apologies. It has been a long day.”

“I bet.” Fjord casually shifted his weight to his other hip, his grin more subdued but confident, and Caleb was suddenly aware of the barely a foot of space between them now. 

He adjusted his grip on Frumpkin, hefting the familiar slightly up between them, a feline shield. If Frumpkin also happened to hiss at Fjord upon Caleb’s mental nudging when Fjord grew too liberal in deciding how close it was appropriate to sway while smiling like that to get the answers he wanted, well, added bonus.

“Ah,” Fjord eyed the cat warrily, taking a step back. “You’ll have to forgive me ‒ allergic. Care to share how that meeting went?”

Caleb considered the request for a long moment, but he’d already dragged this out enough. If he hadn’t intended to share that information, he never would have brought it up. “Alas,” Caleb lamented, “illusion magic is a tricky thing. It tends to confirm one’s assumptions if it can, showing you what you expect to see. Turns out it was never a forgery to begin with. Only a clever spell. It was a brief meeting.”

Fjord looked part surprised, but the other part far too pleased for Caleb’s liking. “Well, that is awfully fortunate.”

“Very,” he agreed. “Fjord?”

“Yes, Caleb?”

“Give me that fucking page back.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Caleb emerged from the door at the mouth of the hallway, Beau saw him tucking a folded piece of paper into an inside coat pocket. She took that as a good sign. 

“And?” she asked, falling into step beside him as they continued on toward the downward spiralling staircase and, eventually, the main doors to exit the Pillow Trove.

When his eyes landed on her, it wasn’t quite with surprise, but neither had he been expecting her to check back in.

“Nothing I did not expect,” he said quietly, getting that pensive, almost pained look on his face that he wore all too often of late. She would’ve taken him at his word, but then his eyes dropped, mouth a displeased flat line like he was rethinking that answer.

“No surprises?” she nudged gently, glancing at him sidelong.

“Not really.” They fell silent as they passed a number of servants carrying platters of food coming up the stairs, moving to the side to make way.

“Not really isn’t a no,” Beau observed casually, not sure how far he’d let her probe.

“No relevant surprises,” he amended.

“So there were surprises then.”

“What are you getting at, Beauregard?” he asked, guarded. Not very far then.

She sighed, putting her hands up in surrender. “Nothing. You’ve just got a weird look on your face. Just trying to make sure everything’s alright.”

He was silent for a moment, though silent was fairly business as usual for him. “It is done and dealt with,” he summarized, but there was none of the relief of a resolved problem in his tone or posture. Then again, Caleb was both efficient and depressing enough to forego the afterparty and simply move on to the next problem on the list, so his mind could’ve been anywhere. “So long as you dealt with the priestess.”

She huffed, not her fondest memory. “Dealt with is one word for it, yeah. But she’s fuckin’ fiesty, let me tell ya.”

“Two words,” he muttered, quiet enough to almost miss.

“Huh?” 

“‘Dealt with’ is two words.” She almost missed the fleeting grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

Beau rolled her eyes. “Oh fuck off.”

They pushed through the doors and stepping out into the cold evening air, the sun having set two hour ago at least. The lobby inside the building was almost empty, but the plaza and streets outside were deserted. The days had grown rapidly colder and shorter, winter setting in with an iron grip.

Outside waited the four Righteous Brand soldiers that were on babysitting duty tonight, Caleb having convinced them to give a little breathing room. When they too fell into step, that’s where the conversation about the Nicodranas crew died.

“How was Rexxentrum?” she asked, changing the topic. They had decided against her accompanying him, the trip being too brief to make much use out of it. Besides, she was still managing contacts in Zadash while he was away.

“Cold,” he said after a moment, frowning off into the dark. “Inefficient. Frustrating.” A man of many words, Caleb Widogast.

She chewed at the inside of her cheek, wondering how many questions he’d let her get away before shutting down entirely. In his defense, he did look a bit like shit. “Did you at least get to talk with him?” she asked, a little lower, conscious of the open streets.

Caleb’s shoulders fell a fraction, expression definitely pained. “No.”

“What?” She did him the grace of sounding offended on his behalf. “The dickbag wouldn’t talk about it?”

“The ‒” Caleb sighed at her choice of language, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Eodwulf did not make an appearance.” 

Beau stared, mouth ajar. “He had three days,” she recounted. “Three days, and he couldn’t find a few spare minutes to teleport on over?”

Caleb’s expression was… complicated. “I cannot speak for him or his reasons, Beauregard. I do not know what he is doing or where he is.” There was a pause. “I am sure he has his reasons.”

“He didn’t at least send a message?” she asked, recalculating her assumptions. “Wait, seriously. You mean you left word for him a week ago, and this pal of yours didn’t even bother ‒”

“Beauregard, please,” he snapped, expression tight with a mess of emotions she wasn’t qualified to read into. “Enough.”

After a moment of consideration, she decided that was enough questions for one night. “Sorry,” she said quietly, and meant it, but it wasn’t her own actions she was apologizing for. 

They lapsed into silence.

She walked with him as far as their paths aligned, the Archives being a little ways away from the Silken Terrace where the manor Caleb was holing up in was situated. With a quiet goodnight, they parted ways, and more so to stave off the cold with a little cardio than anything, Beau darted through alleys and over rooftops and fences until she’d made it to the steps of the Archives, where the monks had given her a room in their dormitories for the duration of her stay in Zadash. 

As early in the evening as it was, she was planning on spending some time in the sand pits turning her little sprint into a proper work out, then maybe wind down with a book or something boring. Therefore she was not planning on a blur of motion to her right and a fist coming from nowhere, damn near connecting hard with her ribs as she walked down the narrow stone corridor on her way to her room.

“Fuck!” She twisted out of the way at the last second, knuckles grazing her side, and grabbing the wrist she directed it into the stone wall instead. She pivoted, bringing her elbow up and preparing to slam it into the throat of her attacker, but froze when she saw Dairon’s face.

“On your right,” she said through a determined grin that always accompanied her “lessons”, at least the ones that seemed to require beating Beau into the dirt.

“Yeah I can see that. What the fuck?” She released Dairon’s wrist, bringing her arms back in tight to a defensive stance.

She didn’t make that mistake again, and didn’t hold her attacks back either when, rather than explain herself, Dairon immediately dropped low into a wide stance and planted a fist firmly in Beau’s solar plexus.

Gasping as the air was ripped from her lungs, she knocked the next strike aside and spun with her weight behind her elbow as she slammed Dairon’s jaw with it. But Dairon moved with the blow, immediately retaliating with a flurry of blows.

She dodged and blocked the woman’s strikes where she could, still confused by the onslaught. “Care to explain yourself?” she demanded as she forced Dairon against the wall with the weight of her whole body behind the knee she launched into her diaphragm, forearm digging into her throat.

Dairon grunted in pain, her foot connecting with the side of Beau’s knee, kicking hard. Beau hissed in pain as she stumbled and Dairon shoved off her, sliding sideways along the wall to escape her grapple. “On the contrary,” she gasped, righting herself. “I came so you could explain yourself.”

Beau managed to duck the left hook to her face and swing her own fist into Dairon’s ribs in response. What she missed was the uppercut that clipped her just under her jaw, sending her head snapping back with a white blur behind her eyelids. The taste of iron bloomed in her mouth, biting her tongue painfully. 

Swearing and spitting blood, she righted herself and wailed on Dairon, her fists making brutal contact with her ribs twice then satisfyingly slamming her knuckles into Dairon’s temple, sending her reeling back a step.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she yelled, jumping up and kicking off the wall to close the gap between then, spinning and coming down foot first on Dairon’s sternum.

It was less effective than she would’ve liked, Dairon darting backward and avoiding the full blow. Worse, as Beau landed, Dairon kicked out, nearly sweeping her feet out from under her, and charged forward to land another blow across her eye socket with a resounding crack. Or maybe that was the sound of Beau’s head crashing into the wall. Her vision going black around the periphery, she caught herself on her shoulder against the stones, breathing hard. 

“Have you forgotten your first obligation, Expositor Beauregard?” Dairon asked, catching her own breath. 

“Fuck you,” Beau spat, shoving off the wall and running at her former mentor. She feinted to one side, ducking under her defensive blocks and landing two vicious strikes to her torso, redirecting her last to the crook of her neck. Focusing on her intent rather than the frustration, Beau jammed two knuckles into the bundle of nerves there just as Dairon herself had shown her once, grinning through the blood that painted her lips as Dairon gasped, her muscles locking up.

She shoved Dairon back, open handed and not with the intent of hurting, only knocking her back on her ass, which in her stunned state, was easily accomplished.

“I know what my fucking job is. And I’m doing it,” she panted, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, staining the wraps with a streak of red. 

With a shuddering breath, Dairon recovered, pushing herself up to her knees, then her feet. Beauregard watched closely, ready if she launched into an offensive again, but made no move to stop her or to strike herself. Slowly, warily, it became apparent that this conflict, whatever it was, was over.

“I am not talking about your job,” Dairon said, voice thin from exertion. “I am talking about your duty to the Cobalt Soul. First, before all else.”

“I fuckin’ hate riddles, man. Never was any good at ‘em,” she countered, stance still wide and guarded.

Dairon stepped closer, hands down by her side closed fists. “Your duty,” she said slowly, “is your loyalty. Have you forgotten where that lies?”

Beau swallowed around the blood, eyeing the monk closely. Her heart was racing in her chest suddenly, and it wasn’t from the fight. “No,” she insisted. “No, and also fuck you. I know what I’m doing.”

Dairon took another step, and another, until she was nearly toe to toe.

“Let’s talk about the Archmage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and leaving kudos and commenting especially <3 Those emails "[AO3] Comment on..." really make my day.


	10. winter's crest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a tad late, I got lost in the plot ;)

 

The chandelier was impressive, truly. 

He had been through the massive titular chamber of the King’s Hall before, on numerous occasions of late. Like the heart of a great cathedral, it was all carved marble floors and stone pillars rising above to meet high arching ceilings. Richly colored tapestries lit up the space just as much as every torch-bearing wall sconce. It was a beautiful bit of architecture, an early construction begun immediately after the fall of the Julous Dominionion, the last stronghold of which was Zadash. And all of it proved a much needed distraction.

The difference this time, and the unstated reason for Caleb having suddenly developed an interest in architecture, was that on every occasion before which he traversed the central hall, he had never been so motivated to find something benign,  _ anything  _ benign, upon which he could fix his attention. One of the lovely characteristics of the great chandelier was that it hung above the general eye level of the slowly churning crowd consisting of Zadash’s elite, each and every one of them it seemed currently in attendance. They packed the space, leaving it too warm despite the snow falling outside and too congested even considering the cavernous space they occupied. The crowd fluctuated and contracted, spinning and dancing gradually about the center where the string quartet took up in earnest. The chandelier was an excuse. A convenient scapegoat on which to rest his gaze.

Unfortunately though, one could not stare forever. At some point rather soon, social propriety would demand the he pull his gaze away from the chandelier, or the wall, or the tapestry or torches or pillars or whichever location he had selected and begin making at least an attempt at eye contact again.

Needless to say, Caleb was not enjoying himself.

There he stood, inside the King’s Hall, the heart of the evening’s festivities, surrounded by every sort of creature comfort coin could buy. Stuck. And slowly, painfully, suffocating. Nott criticized him for being dramatic, but all the same, he couldn’t help but tug at the close collar of his dress robes; the heavily embroidered wool was stiff and too warm and he wouldn’t have picked it at all if Nott hadn’t insisted.

He wouldn’t have even come if Nott hadn’t insisted.

This was precisely what he expected of the Winter’s Crest Gala: a who’s who of not only Zadash, but the Southern half of the Empire. Lords and Ladies, noble folk and those twice-removed still pretending to be, powerful merchant families with the money to marry into noble bloodlines, successful tradesmen and guild leaders and the ones who only used to be, new political appointees and career bureaucrats alike... each one of them more gossip-hungry than the next and both ready and able to sniff out scandal like a bloodhound.

In a climate where information‒ and misinformation‒ so readily spread, Caleb ought to have been in his element. Perhaps if he had a goal, some objective to accomplish, a real reason to be there other than to waste his time, then the polite smiling and nodding and fake sipping of whatever was in his glass would have been tolerable. As it stood however, his only reason for being at the gala was because he was invited, and it was expected of him. As it stood, he could ignore neither of those things. And so, as it stood, Caleb was miserable.

“Caleb, pay attention, are you even trying to be civil?  _ Don’treplytothismessage! _ ”

He winced, Nott’s voice a shrill and sudden burst in the back of his skull, courtesy of the earrings. She was hiding somewhere nearby, not that he could even hazard a guess as to where. Hiding, and drinking. He could tell by the sharp sting of her words, usually more gentle with him except when he  _ really  _ deserved it, and the timbre of her voice. 

Precisely what he expected of the Winter’s Crest Gala, in every regard except for one. And he felt it sorely.

Ignoring her warning against a reply, he did however wait patiently for the conversation to break into a brief fit of chuckles and laughter after something only vaguely amusing was said, the noise concealing his quiet muttering behind the lip of his champagne flute. “Have you seen or heard from Beauregard yet?” He took another tiny sip from the glass as his eyes darted between the party-goers he’d last rotated to, little more than wetting his lips with it. He had only picked it up because it looked befitting and because it was something to do with his hands.

Drinking at the moment, though he and Nott would differ on this, simply seemed like a terrible idea. But he would admit, ill-advised or not, he was  _ certain  _ that Nott was having a far better time than he. Certain enough to think twice about his self-imposed rule.

Barely a moment passed before her voice crept up in his head again. “No, not since the last time you asked five minutes ago. I told you, I’ll let you know as soon as I do. ”

Caleb felt something dense and heavy sink a little deeper in his chest. “Eighteen minutes ago,” he muttered, correcting her.

“Same thing. I’ll let you know when I find her. Now this time  _ don’treplytothismessage _ .”

Perhaps Nott had a point though. Civility. Mingling. Polite conversation. All things he was expected to partake in. Caleb tuned back into the conversation, schooling his expression into something feasibly attentive as his eyes moved on to the stained glass windows.

“‒and no one had ever heard of these Lord and Lady Briarwood before, not here in WIldemount.” That would be Lord Morrigan, a sallow man perhaps only a few years Caleb’s senior, voice nasally in his excitement to relay his story, as it had been since the outset. The history of Tal’dorei was something of a hobby of his it seemed, which Caleb would have found more engaging if it went any deeper than a beginner academy textbook.

He tracked the conversation, but it did not keep his attention. Not fully. Not when Beauregard was meant to be there, which his thoughts continued to return to despite his best efforts like a stubborn horse pulling at the reins. She had promised she would be there. It wasn’t as if either of them enjoyed these things. But it was more tolerable to be miserable together. 

“‒Wildemount was of course where they claimed to hail from.” Elena Isylian, an older woman even by elvish standards, and an archivist with the Hall of Erudition. She was a guest of the Headmaster and hovered about the gnome all night, though likely for slightly different reasons than Caleb, who’s choice of conversationalists hinged heavily on who was content to do most of the talking for him. “And allegedly, the origin of their claim to nobility, if I recall.”

“Oh yes indeed. But it’s uncertain even as to which of them had the birthright claim, if it even existed, and which married into it. Absurd really,” the Lord elaborated, pausing only to down the remainder of his glass. “So impossible to say where that origin lay precisely.”

Whatever this conversation was about, Caleb had no interest. He had not seen Beauregard in four days, since that night they’d walked back from the Pillow Trove. He had not heard from her in just under two. When he had turned to arcane means to contact her, mundane means failing, she was “busy,” she said. With “monk shit,” she said. But she had said nothing about this. He understood her dual duties to her order which occasionally arose, but this was unprecedented.

The archivist was frowning, judging by her tone. “That need not necessarily be the case. If newly titled‒”

She was interrupted with a scoff. “New nobility? No no, doesn’t happen these days. Hasn’t in decades.”

The Headmaster hummed contemplatively, a frown forming on his deeply creased face as he considered his response, and rapped his walking staff sharply against the marble floor as if to command attention before offering it. “Well, there is quite a lot to be desired in the record keeping of noble lineages in the last four or so decades,” he said, and the way he leaned into it, slow to get to the point, Caleb sensed a monologue coming. “With the exception being some noteworthy scholarly endeavors to reconstruct noble bloodlines, which relied primarily on a few families’ private records...” He continued on in much the same way, elaborating where unnecessary, and admittedly, Caleb stopped following it even in the back of his mind somewhere about halfway through.

He was frustrated by Beauregard’s absence, and anxious about it like anything frustrating and unexplained and not immediately remediable made him anxious. And underneath that he was concerned though he wouldn’t voice it, wasn’t sure how to, not to Nott, the only person he might consider voicing it too. His mind continually returned in exacting detail to every last exchange he’d had with the monk, every word that could have hinted‒

“‒seem to be thinking so terribly hard, Archmage, it would be a shame if you didn’t share your thoughts with us.” 

Caleb’s attention snapped back to the present with a numbing dose of self-awareness. Headmaster Occurom chuckled, his lighthearted jab not an unfriendly one, but still Caleb felt his spine straighten and lock, pulse rabbiting beneath his collar. 

He blinked once, twice, pulling his gaze away from where it had drifted without really seeing to the distant wall. He met the Headmaster’s look with a slight abashed smile, confident it did not seem too forced. “Ah, forgive me. I will admit, I had begun thinking of a book I had read some years ago on the matter,” he said, not the truth this time, but not an entirely fabricated experience. “It feels like years at least. But I cannot seem to recall where I left off and what had become of it.” He shrugged, his eyes passing over the three others who offered only chuckles and sympathetic nods.

“Ah, a familiar and unfortunate byproduct of our current political climate,” Occurom sighed, scratching his whiskers. “No time to read a good book these days between one crisis and the next.”

Caleb’s hum of agreement was a genuine one.

“Oh indeed,” Lord Morrigan jumped in immediately, eyes bright with a drink or three too many and his eagerness to breach the topic, and Caleb was already considering means of extracting himself from this conversation. For that past hour he’d been dodging questions about the war, about his predictions and ongoing efforts, about Felderwin particularly, from nearly everyone he came into contact with. The young Lord was no different.

“Dreadful business,” he continued, “Though I suppose it’s made your entire career, hasn’t it?” Caleb didn’t feel that merited a response, opting instead to stare cooly at the man, though he didn’t seem to notice it, too caught up in the new curiosity. “One would be hard pressed to rise through the ranks so quickly and with so few years under the belt without a little bloodshed. Always a new office to be filled,” he chuckled, finding that funny, as disconnected from the painful political reality of it as he was. 

Unimpressed, Caleb glanced around for an excuse to walk away, but found none convenient. 

“That is sometimes the case with conflict such as this, yes,” Caleb agreed blandly, trying not to convey too thoroughly the bitter taste the subject left in his mouth with every syllable when casual disapproval would suffice.

“You’ve held your office, what, three, four years?” he asked, looking at Caleb expectantly.

“Just over four years,” he intoned.

“So you filled a vacancy caused by a war casualty, yes?”

“No.”

The man didn’t even hesitate, sure as he was. “No? But Archmage Ikithon perished on the fields of Valthyr‒”

Caleb nearly flinched, not at the man’s name, just a memory and a ghost as it was, but at the circumstances of his passing, as unexpected as it was. He was not alone in this. Headmaster Occurom’s own eyes went wide, stuttering over his words. Some matters of the past where not to be discussed so casually, and with such people.  “Uh, say, I do believe that’s the Lawmaster over‒”

“The only Archmage the Cricks have managed to claim, so far,” Lord Morrigan continued without pause. There was a long pause in which he looked at Caleb and Caleb looked back hard in turn, assessing his intent, which seemed nothing but frustratingly ignorant. 

“Correct,” he agreed, the consonants hard on his tongue. Not for the first time, not for the last time, the lie so well-trained that he’s nearly come to believe it left his tongue. Four souls properly knew what happened at Valthyr. Only two left the fields alive. You had to have been there...

“And you were appointed following the incident.”

The Headmaster tittered nervously. “Gentlemen, please, such topics are not‒”

“I was.”

The Lord looked perplexed, though not the least bit put off from his inquiry. “So you‒”

“No.” Caleb debated not giving any more than that, as he certainly had no obligation too, but the man’s mouth flapped like he was about to begin speaking again and Caleb really rather he wouldn’t. “Domestic inquiry was a…” he sought the right word, looking on flatly with as great a disinterest he could muster, “new installation. The circumstances of the Archmage’s passing highlighted the need for it‒” and that was true, in a way‒ “but I did not succeed him. That fell to another, eventually.”

There was another long, silent pause between the four of them, Caleb’s glare cool and persistent, and perhaps, just maybe, the Lord was beginning to detect how unwelcome his curiosity was received. Meanwhile the Headmaster anxiously eyed them both, and the archivist looked rather caught in the middle.

“Ah,” the Lord relented, grinning sheepishly. “I was always curious as to how that came about.”

“ _ Were _ you.”

“Oh yes,” he agreed readily, nodding. “I thought, while I have the pleasure of your company of course, why not ask the man who knows firsthand? You were there after all, on the battlefield at Valthyr, yes?”

Caleb was sure the grinding of his teeth was audible. Better that than the thrumming in his chest. 

“Caleb, do you need me to cause a distraction? You look like- and oh, is that-?”

He ignored Nott’s concern, the spell garbled and fading as he spoke through it. “I do not believe you require my help, Herr Morrigan, answering your own questions as you are.”

“But the history of this war, it interests me terribly. And you must have quite the story to tell from that‒”

“Pardon me, gentlemen, my lady.” A new voice, but a familiar drawl. Caleb’s tunnel vision evaporated in an instant, his attention pivoting as he turned his head to the intrusion on instinct, expression guarded.

There, standing where Caleb was sure he had no invitation to be, was one particular sea captain that, perhaps for the first time, proved a needed distraction.

It took him a moment though to truly grasp what he was seeing. Meant to be there or most assuredly not, Fjord cut a dashing picture, looking just as much like he belonged there in elegant dining coat and accompanying formal wear as any of the Lords and Ladies of the evening. More than half of it was in how he carried himself, back straight and broad shoulders back, exuding confidence, because attire was the easy part; it was the constant and insufferable bullshitting that was hard to sell. But Fjord did it well. Very well.

“And you are?” Morrigan asked, haughty and a touch demanding, though clearly cautious to be snide given one misplaced remark in this place would have one stepping on the toes of their social superior. 

“Hoping to borrow the Archmage for a moment,” Fjord offered by way of answering, still smiling pleasantly though fully understanding he obfuscated the question, given the way he looked the man up and down. 

Caleb did not think Fjord was very impressed with what he saw. His particular brand of charm, impudent but amusing if not endearing, was beginning to grow on him, Caleb realized. Perhaps it was merely Beauregard’s absence, the absence of an ally. But regardless of how he came to be there, Caleb was, concerningly, both relieved and grateful.

One hand Fjord had tucked formally behind his back, which was straight to the point of too-perfect posture. Caleb sensed just a little mockery of the surrounding hyper-formality behind it, immature perhaps, though a valid criticism. But behind the knowing, conceited grin he treated Caleb to as Fjord watched him come to the realization that  _ surely he was not meant to be there, _ there was something even more reckless. Caleb was sure Fjord would have winked if it wouldn’t have been all too obvious.

Smile softening and suddenly being replaced by faux seriousness washing over his expression, Fjord extended a hand partway, palm up. An invitation. “If he’s not opposed.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It wasn’t like he had been trying to find Caleb. Not right away at least. In fact, if Fjord had his way, they wouldn’t even be there.

It was Jester who’d begged to go. Jester, and then Molly. They were insufferable, the two of them together, and Fjord had learned his lesson from the Temple of the Platinum Dragon fiasco. If they were going to do something stupid, and they couldn’t be dissuaded, the least he could do was supervise and try to prevent the worst from happening.

Still, there was a small voice in the back of his head, the one that tended to get him trouble, touching things he really shouldn’t, that reminded him that Caleb would likely be here. And, a not insubstantial part of him wanted to see the Archmage again, after how they’d left off. Which was ridiculous, really, because Caleb would be the one person at the Gala who would recognize them and immediately know they were in a place where they had no right being.

That didn’t stop him from glancing after just about every flash of red hair though. And it did nothing to suppress the brief flutter of excitement his heart did in his chest at finding him, looking terribly sharp in charcoal grey dress robes with ornately embroidered mantle and emerald sash draped loosely from shoulder to hip. He stood alongside the Headmaster and two others that Fjord didn’t recognize. 

He mulled over what a smooth entrance might look like, hiding behind a group dressed loudly enough to make even Molly’s eyes water off the side in the meantime. It wasn’t polite to interrupt, and though Caleb seemed to turn his nose up at formalities like that, this crowd seemed the sort to take that type of slight as a personal offense. Except, well, Caleb looked dreadfully uncomfortable. He hid it well, carried himself sternly as always, but Fjord was beginning to get a sense of the man, and the tension between his shoulders wasn’t mere discipline. And then discomfort turned to actively looking for an exit, then even that morphed into something colder, and Fjord’s feet were moving before he gave them permission.

And the words that came out of his own mouth… really, he couldn’t be held responsible.

“If he’s not opposed.”

The question hung heavily in the air. And for a moment, Fjord wasn’t sure if Caleb would accept the offer or just keep staring mutely. And though his mind cruelly reminded him how awkward a state of affairs that’d be and sweat pricked along his spine, he put up a sure front just like every other asshole here, perhaps too sure in his effort to get it right.

“Mr. Fjord,” Caleb greeted him, tone cool but tinged with pleasant surprise, but Fjord couldn’t tell if the  _ pleasant  _ part was honest or not. A beat passed while Caleb calculated his response. “I am happy to oblige, of course.” 

And Fjord breathed. “That’s mighty generous of you. I’d hope to take only a moment of your time, regarding that business we were last discussing,” he said, aware of how purposefully vague that sounded.

“Ah, Mr. Fjord is it?” the man to Caleb’s right interjected, assessing the situation. “We haven’t had the pleasure. How do you know each other?” he asked, glancing between Fjord and Caleb.

Fjord hesitated, glancing to Caleb, whose mouth was pursed in displeasure as he looked to some point fixed over Fjord’s shoulder. He seemed about the answer too, when Headmaster Occurom piped up, eager to seize the shift in the conversation.

“Ah, Lord Morrigan, this is, eh, Captain Fjord, visiting Emissary of the Clovis Concord, here in our city for‒” he too glanced at Caleb, still collecting a response, then at Fjord, and Fjord just blinked back like an idiot, realizing they might not have ever addressed it that day at the Hall of Erudition. “Well, eh, business…?”

This was a problem he really should have predicted.

“Official affairs of the Cerberus Assembly,” Caleb decided, and Fjord nodded. “I am afraid I cannot elaborate much beyond that.”

“Right,” Fjord agreed, smiling politely.

“Right,” Morrigan said, drawing the syllable out in such a way as he narrowed his eyes at the two of them that suggested he had doubts, and was also keenly interested. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” But he didn’t extend a hand, still eyeing Fjord carefully as he tried to figure him out, only Fjord couldn’t help but notice he did so down his nose. Another holier-than-thou aristocrat then.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Fjord countered, his smile growing tight. “I do hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,” he said, finding it difficult to be sincere.

“Well, we  _ were  _ in the m‒”

“No, not at all,” Caleb interrupted, already stepping away, and who was going to object, really? “Headmaster, archivist, a pleasure as always. You will have to excuse me, but I shall do my best to find you again before the night is out,” he said, polite to promise it, but Fjord had his doubts about whether he meant to keep it. 

With a few more polite words of parting, Caleb had, with the expertise of a man who wormed his way out of many a social confrontation, ended the conversation and ushered them away. They navigated between roving clusters of attendees as they circumvented the center of the hall, currently occupied with slowly dancing couples and fanned out spinning skirts.

“I have serious doubts that you have an invitation to this event, Mr. Fjord,” Caleb hissed under his breath, still looking ahead as they navigated the crowd. “Seeing as no one giving them is aware you’re  _ in  _ this city.”

“Best not concern yourself with that,” Fjord said, laughing weakly as he tried to steer them clear of the topic.

“Oh I wish I could,” he admitted, tone clipped and residual anxiety making every line of him sharp and damn near bristling. “But after last time‒”

“Not the same, I assure you,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, unable to help glancing around for anyone who might be eavesdropping. But all that really stood out to him was Molly chatting up a crowd and Jester darting after pastries across the room. When he returned his gaze to Caleb, the man was downright glowering. Fjord grinned. “All this little infiltration took was a new wardrobe and some greased palms. No signatures necessary.”

Caleb heaved a long-suffering exhale. “And how is this ‘infiltration’ going for you?”

“Not too bad, though a little boring,” he shrugged. “I’m only here to babysit.”

It took hardly a second for that to click. “Oh gods,” Caleb sighed, genuinely distressed. “You brought your colorful friends here?”

Fjord nodded, lifting a hand to Caleb’s elbow and angling him with a gentle nudge in the direction of said friends. Caleb stilled, but turned as directed, expression conflicted and ultimately resigned.

“More like convinced ‘em to bring me,” Fjord said. “But I wouldn’t worry yourself too much,” he was quick to add. He kept his voice low, already near to Caleb’s ear as he was with Fjord standing over his shoulder now, Caleb having rotated to track the tieflings’ movement across the floor. Realizing the proximity, Fjord eyes dropped down, past the curve of Caleb’s shoulder, his back only a few inches separated from Fjord’s chest, landing where he belated realized his hand still rested curled around Caleb’s elbow. Very suddenly, it felt as if the man were radiating heat that seared right through him. Even Fjord’s most impulsive instincts bulked. He cleared his throat softly, dropping his hand away and taking a short step back. “They know to be on their best behavior, and everything’s gone smoothly so far.”

“Well,” he huffed, turning in place again to face Fjord. “That may be the case. But  _ that  _ could have gone smoother,” Caleb remarked bitterly, jerking his chin in the direction they’d just come from now they were a sufficient distance away. 

“Could’ve gone worse,” Fjord countered, stepping aside for a beleaguered servant to pass, but snatching up a glass of something whiskey-brown and, Fjord was betting, top shelf from the tray he carried.

Caleb frowned, swirling the liquid in his own glass around slowly, though he didn’t seem interested in it in the least. “I am not an optimist, Fjord. There is no point to seeing things other than exactly as they are, and that could have gone better.” Even as he said it though, his posture loosened, no longer pulled taut enough to snap as they fell into whatever this rapport was. Caleb continued walking, slower this time and with less purpose, and looking for Fjord to follow.

“You say that,” he observed, grinning wryly, “but that glass looks more’n half full to me.” Caleb treated him to a flat look, to which Fjord only chuckled, taking a test whiff of the content of the tumbler he’d snagged. “Tell you what. If that one doesn’t suit you, we’ll get you another. I’m feeling generous,” he said because he was unable to help himself, smirk poorly hidden behind the lip of his glass. “Round’s on me.”

Caleb muttered something in his native tongue under his breath that Fjord was sure wasn’t a compliment. He abandoned his mostly untouched drink on one of the small unoccupied tables they passed situated around the outside of the hall. “Very funny. I was not informed you were the night’s entertainment.”

“No? You were right there when I made my grand entry,” he said, motioning with his glass back to where they’d come from.

“Grand entry indeed,” he huffed. “That was your means of, what, inviting me to dance?” Caleb chaffed, tone was critical and the words delivered deadpan, but the sharp smirk that carried through to his eyes betrayed his amusement.

Fjord rolled his eyes, taking the mockery with good grace. He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head. That hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now that Caleb mentioned it, that  _ was  _ a thought, wasn’t it? “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. Why?”

“Good. You should have to try much harder than that.”

“Is that a challenge, Caleb? Should I?” he asked, faux serious in rising to the bait, but only partly.

Caleb huffed at the idea, looking at Fjord with severe doubts. “Best not,” he scolded, but his serious composure was strained.

“Mr. Widogast,” he said, far more gravely than it deserved, “if it’s my skills which you’re questioning, I feel compelled to correct your presumptions. I’m a man of many talents, I assure you.”

“I did not mean to offend you, Herr Fjord,” Caleb corrected himself.

“I’m not so easily offended. Perhaps your own skills then?” Fjord asked, a friendly jab.

Caleb laughed, just the once before he recollected himself. “No, not that either, believe it or not.” He glanced sideways at Fjord. “The merits of a classical education.”

“Interesting,” Fjord observed, re-evaluating the Archmage and the mental image he’d conjured up. “Then may I ask why?”

Caleb looked at Fjord like he was missing something obvious. “Rumors,” he said, lifting a hand and circling his finger in the air to indicate all around them, “abound.”

“Ah, I see.” Fjord shrugged a shoulder, unable to care all that much. “Perhaps another time then.”

Caleb eyed him curiously. “To the drink or the dance?”

Fjord grinned over his glass at the Archmage, throwing in a wink that would make Molly proud just for good measure. “I dunno. Maybe either.”

Caleb, the bastard, huffed an amused, doubt-ridden laugh. “We will see,” he said, unconvinced. “It may be too late to prevent rumors anyway, considering your ‘grand entry’.”

“Hey,” Fjord warned, “I can’t be held accountable for my actions when I see a damsel in distress.”

Caleb’s back straightened, cautious affront flickering across his face. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m talking about Lord whoever that was, given what you looked like you were about to do to him.”

Caleb made a wounded sound, rolling his eyes.

“I do declare, I was afeard for his life,” Fjord leaned in to whisper conspiratorially as they wove through marble columns, mocking seriousness and the Lord’s highfalutin manner of speaking. 

Caleb only shook his head, glaring at him condemningly if half-heartedly, even while he suppressed lip-bitten humor. Recovering a neutral façade, he cleared his throat, diligently staring ahead and away from Fjord for a moment. “You exaggerate.”

“Only a little,” Fjord acknowledged, shrugging.

“May I ask,” Caleb began, shifting the topic. “What did you want to discuss?” Then, with a slight twist to the line of his mouth. “Or did you only want to make a fool of yourself?”

Fjord took a deep breath, more for the moment it gave him to reach for an answer than anything else, pausing to scan over the hall. For as much as his approach had been an intervention, and in other ways selfish (because regardless of how unwise and dangerous, or perhaps because of it, he  _ did  _ enjoy this, this back and forth) there was a matter which had weighed on him. There had never been a time to raise it, though the longer he considered it, the more confusing it became. It wasn’t necessarily critical, but it was more than a curiosity, and for all that they did and didn’t enjoy about their time in Zadash, Fjord and his crew were there for a purpose.

Caleb was too, clearly, and once, Fjord thought he knew what that purpose was.

Whatever Caleb saw, looking at him, it brought back a dry sense of seriousness to his expression. His head tilted to one side and brows knitted together just slightly, the look of a man intent on solving a puzzle just by looking at it. 

“Perhaps this isn’t the right venue,” Fjord began slowly, and either by his tone or whatever Caleb solved looking at him the way he did, the atmosphere between them, whatever it had been, sobered even more rapidly. “If that’s the case, please stop me, and I apologize. But otherwise...”

“Ask your question, Fjord,” Caleb said, a bit to Fjord’s surprise. “I will answer it if I am able.” 

“See now,” Fjord hemmed, wincing and swallowing around the burn of alcohol as it went down. “That’s the thing. ‘If you’re able.’ I don’t rightly expect a straightforward answer. You rarely give ‘em.”

The crease between the Archmage’s brows deepened. He rocked back on his heels, appraising Fjord with a stubbornly unreadable expression. “Does that bother you?” he asked, each syllable slow and meticulously formed.

The question caught him by surprise. “Ah, no?” he answered, because he supposed it didn’t, not really. “No,” he repeated, more convinced this time. “Just‒ honestly it gives rise to the question in the first place.”

Caleb hummed, a low note of understanding. “Then ask, bluntly, and I will try my best to answer the same. Admittedly,” he said, “you have me rather curious now.”

“Aren’t you always?” Fjord prodded, half smirk persistent.

Caleb smiled weakly, inclining his head. “Guilty as charged. I do not believe that was your question though.”

Fjord took a breath, and threw himself into it before he could convince himself otherwise. “Do you  _ want  _ the Empire to strike a deal with‒” he hesitated‒ “my lot?” Caleb tensed, surprise flashing through his eyes before he righted himself. “You’re responsible for making it happen, and that’s why I’m here, but,” Fjord shook his head. “I don’t think‒ and I don’t mean to seem callous or imply anythin’,” Fjord assured, “But you haven’t given the impression that you  _ care _ .” 

There was a long pause. It wasn’t so much that Caleb’s expression went neutral as it went slack. He went from looking a Fjord to looking right through him, his stare gaining a thousand-yard quality. But then he took a breath, exhaling heavily. “Oh.” 

The note had a sense of finality, of acceptance, to it. And when Caleb met his gaze, Fjord’s own eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar in his surprise, it was like he wasn’t even trying.

‘Oh’ indeed.

Caleb reached out and in one motion plucked the glass from Fjord’s lax grip and threw back the last quaff of the drink, grimacing in displeasure as he swallowed. Finally, he inhaled sharply. 

“Close your mouth,” he ordered quietly.

Fjord did, a thousand more questions crowding around his brain as he went through the motions, accepting the now empty tumbler Caleb returned to his hand without a word. 

Caleb jerked his head to one side.  “Walk with me.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He made a decision. 

The moment those words left Fjord’s mouth, after the moment that he expected panic to fill didn’t come, Caleb made a decision, and there was no taking it back. He believed it was the right one, or at least not a bad one, despite how it made his heart leap in his rib cage. But that making it depended so heavily upon what he believed he knew of Fjord and their relationship thus far concerned him greatly. 

He walked, not waiting for Fjord’s response, not even waiting to ensure he followed, only trusting that he would, because this was not a conversation to be had around people like these.

“I am not trying to, to obfuscate,” Caleb said, voice low as Fjord caught up astride him. “But my answer requires some, ah, explanation.” 

“I’ll bet,” Fjord agreed, and he did not appear angry or distrusting or any of the things Caleb considered he might be, but he did look confused, and it was clear he was thinking, and quickly at that. If that question confirmed anything, even though Caleb had suspected it for some time now, it was that the man was more clever than he sold himself to be.

Fjord turned away in Caleb’s periphery as he directed them to the far end of the hall, where doors on three sides marked the divergent corridors leading elsewhere deeper into the building and few people lingered. When he returned, it was with two more glasses of dark amber whiskey in hand, full this time, and perhaps he had the right idea, Caleb’s previous moratorium be damned. He accepted his when Fjord held it aloft wordlessly before him.

“I am wondering, Fjord,” Caleb sighed as they walked, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, dragging blunt fingernails through his short beard, “how much you know of what it really is that I  _ do _ .” He studied Fjord’s face for an answer.

“Not terribly much,” he admitted. “Though I reckon it has to do with knowing a good many things. Information and the like.”

“You are not wrong,” Caleb said, nodding. He took a smaller mouthful of the drink this time, finding he didn’t care for it much more, though it burned less on the way down. “Here,” he said, motioning for Fjord to come stand beside him. “Do you see the‒ see the woman in the red dress, the half-elf woman, brown hair. See her?” 

He glanced between Fjord and the woman’s direction, waiting for his subtly searching eyes to land in the right direction, nodding, though clearly confused, when he did.

“Yes. What about her?”

Caleb continued on, Fjord following. “That is, eh, Lady von Brant, of one of the largest families of Trostenwald. Wealthy enough some decades ago to marry into noble lineage.” He returned his gaze to Fjord, who looked lost. “For the past seven years, she has been, er, engaged in an affair with her husband’s valet. The legitimacy of two of her children would be in question should that become, ah, public knowledge.”

Fjord raised an eyebrow. “Huh. And you just know that because…?”

“Yes.” He did not elaborate. “And the human gentleman with the dark green coat, eh, twenty-five or so paces to her left?” he indicated with a slight tilt of his head. “Lord Diedric Sutan. He is involved with The Myriad. I am sure I do not need to explain who they are to you.” He didn’t mean it to be cruel, frankly he did not care, he just‒ there was too much to explain, too much that he hadn’t explained to anyone beside Beauregard and Nott really, and he  _ needed  _ Fjord to understand. He needed‒

“No, I’m… familiar,” Fjord said slowly, eyeing Caleb carefully. 

“And‒” Caleb cast his gaze around for a suitable candidate. “And you see the, the ah, the man past him, the curled blonde hair? Yes?” Fjord was still craning his neck to see through  the moving sea of bodies, but Caleb continued, still moving. “Very old land barron family, roots in Deastok. Bankrupt. For  _ years _ . But no one knows. The illusion of wealth and power persists.”

Caleb glanced sideways at Fjord, who was looking at him…  _ oddly _ , with something related to concern, was all he could say. Like all of this, even his question, was secondary. And, sparing a moment to take stock of himself, spinning the glass in his hands around and around while anxiety rippled through his veins, perhaps Fjord had a point. He took a fortifying breath, and a drink for the same purpose, reaching for the cold objective headspace that brutally squashed the nervous energy welling up in his chest. 

“The point of this is,” he began again, slower, “some of these things, this information, it is merely embarrassing. Some of it, crippling. But  _ all  _ of it,” he stressed, meeting Fjord’s questioning look, “is useful.”

“Right. Okay.” Fjord took a long draught from his glass, looking a little out of his depth. “I get the ‘information is power’ argument. But you’re saying one of the most powerful mages in the Empire’s job is collecting blackmail?” he asked, tone dubious. 

“No. Though to give credit where credit is due, Beauregard collected most of this, in preparation for our time in Zadash. She has an alarming knack for that sort of thing. My job,” Caleb clarified, “is protecting the Empire and its interests. Sometimes,” he said, “often,” correcting himself, “that requires unconventional means. But if I acted on all of these, I would have no time for anything else. But most of these things, I do not care about.”

“Until you do,” Fjord finished his thought, following along with greater interest. 

Caleb nodded. He scanned the crowd for the woman he had spotted earlier. If he was going to change his mind, now would be the time. He wasn’t going to though, which he already knew. But caution demanded he consider it one last time. “Now consider a woman you are familiar with.”

It was Caleb’s turn to grab Fjord’s arm, leading him forward a few steps and nudging him in the right direction. Fjord glanced across the crowd, rather quickly identifying who he was meant to be looking at. 

“Is that… That’s the professor, the woman you spoke with at the Hall of Erudition,” he said, glancing at Caleb then back at her discreetly. “Her?”

“ _ Ja _ . Her.”

“What’s her story?” Fjord asked, nursing his drink. “What did you want with her?”

“I promised a straightforward answer,” Caleb intoned, looking Fjord in the eye.

“You did,” Fjord agreed.

“May I have your discretion in return?”

Fjord nodded, slow to do so, but adamant. “You may.”

Caleb sized up the offer, sized up the man making it, but if he was going to distrust Fjord’s ability to be discreet suddenly it would have happened well before now. “Tonight,” he explained, “she enjoys brushing shoulders with the Empire’s elite, as much one of them as anyone here. But tomorrow morning, she is going to return to her study in the Hall of Erudition like she had done every morning for the past four years, and this time, she is going to find Crownsguard waiting to arrest her.”

“Why?”

“For violating embargo laws. Purchasing material components for her research from a guild in Tal’dorei which the Empire blacklisted for its trade with Xhorhas.”

Fjord frowned. “So you’re the Archmage of enforcing trade embargos now? That seems a bit… much. Given everything you’ve just described, what makes her any different from Sutan?” Fjord pushed, keenly interested and scooting closer, voice low.

Still leading them to the very end of the hall, Caleb directed them at the last moment to one of the doors set in the left side and continued through. The Crownsguard positioned around the hall monitoring the events made no move to stop him, they wouldn’t dare, and so he and Fjord close behind slipped into the empty stone corridors and their better assurance against prying eyes and ears.

“I agree with you,” Caleb finally said, honest. “That is not the reason the Professor’s activities came to my attention. But it  _ is  _ the evidence I have.”

It took a beat, but understanding flashed across Fjord’s face. “She’s done something worse?”

“You are a fast learner.”

“You just can’t prove it.”

Caleb shook his head. “She has done something worse that is not a crime.” 

Fjord looked rightly perplexed. 

Caleb sighed. Another drink, and he was swishing the last dregs of it around the bottom of the glass. “We are now touching on a topic that I will speak broadly about, and for that I am sorry. But, I will say, she… knows people, has benefactors interested in her work that are far more dangerous than herself.”

“What exactly is her work?”

Caleb bit the inside of his cheek, pondering how exactly to answer that and if he even should as that familiar gentle buzz began at the back of his skull, washing outward in faint waves. “Her work aids a cause malignant to the best interest of the Empire, whether the Empire is aware of it or not. Removing her from the equation protects that interest.”

Fjord seemed to consider that for a moment, exhaling heavily. “How would the Empire not know its own interests?”

“Its people do,” Caleb stated. “They recall it well. Its leaders,” Caleb shrugged. “Perhaps they‒ we‒ have lost sight of it.”

“And it is…?”

“Peace,” he said simply, because it was obvious, wasn’t it? “Despite my reputation, Fjord, black as it may be, I do not enjoy this war. I aim to end it.”

There was a long pause as both of them mulled over everything which had transpired. 

“And this arrangement with The Revelry won’t do that?” Fjord wagered, lifting a curious eyebrow as he watched Caleb closely over the rim of his glass. “Or it just won’t do it fast enough…”

Caleb huffed shallowly. “Am I so transparent?”

“I mean, it’s been weeks. We’ve met at least half dozen times to negotiate it formally and more besides that and we’ve gotten nowhere. Half the time you’ve cut it short. What was I supposed to think?”

“That it was political,” Caleb answered, tried not to grumble, continuing down a path through twists and turns in the hallway that he’d walked only once before without error.

“Well, I’d think you’d have learned by now that I don’t do ‘political’,” Fjord said, keeping pace beside him.

Caleb sighed, but only because it was true. He couldn’t help himself though, smiling faintly. “You are sharper than perhaps you sell yourself to be.”

Fjord grinned. “You sayin’ you thought I was dumb for a bit there? Not sure if I should be offended by that.”

Caleb smiled sympathetically. “I am saying I did not at first think your intelligence was your best asset.” Fjord snorted into his glass. “I am not perfect. I make mistakes sometimes,” he admitted. “Rarely.”

“Pretty  _ and  _ dumb. You sure know how to flatter, Widogast.”

Caleb smiled fondly, tiredly, too tired to care. “I try.”

He chuckled. “But you still haven’t quite explained‒”

“Oh, yes, that,” Caleb nodded, rolling his shoulders. “I am terrible at straightforward, aren’t I,” he mused, as if this were new to him. Fjord shrugged, but his expression suggested the affirmative. 

Stopping at the end of the corridor, where halls converged, Fjord glanced around the space and the door at the end which was no doubt becoming familiar. 

Caleb shoved the heavy double doors open, immediately being buffeted by the cold winter’s night air that pierced his lungs like so many ice shards as they both stepped out into the empty, snow-covered courtyard where they had escaped the lockdown not even a week prior. The doors closed with a soft sound behind them.

It looked so different in the brief amount of time, the arches over the path at its circumference strung with festive banners, the light dusting of snow turning bare trees white, and a clear sky above glittering with stars and two full moons. He walked until he came to the intricately carved railing overlooking the street beyond. Stopping there, eyes fixed on the constellations he could identify, he did not so much see as feel Fjord’s presence beside him, radiating warmth at his shoulder.

“Do you want the honest answer?” Caleb asked, staring up into the dark, confident finally in their solitude.

A beat of silence, filled with nothing but the movement of the wind and the very distance sound of revelry in the streets passed. It wasn’t rushed, when Fjord responded, a quiet rumble. “Don’t know why I wouldn’t.” 

“I did not design this plan, this accord with The Revelry. I did not vote nor speak in favor of it when it arose for debate within the Cerberus Assembly. For the very reason you identified,” Caleb admitted, glancing from the corner of his eye at Fjord, who was leaning on his elbows against the railing, looking at Caleb far too openly, and not like Caleb himself looked, looking for answers, or weaknesses, places to press. It was in a way Caleb was sure he did not deserve. “Not because I do not think it would be entirely useless for ending this violence. But because it would be a brutal way of doing so, and because it would take upwards of years to have any real effect, regardless of what terms you and I agree to.”

Fjord hummed considerately, head tilted to the side as he watched Caleb silently. Building up the nerve, Caleb finally pivoted to face him. “I intend to see this war ended sooner than that.”

“I’ll admit,” Fjord said, “this proposal never seemed in the Empire’s favor.”

“Precisely. Yet it was approved by my colleagues,” he continued, “and the head of our order, Archmage Da’leth, assigned me of all people to see it done. Over my,  _ strenuous _ , objections.”

“Now why was that surprising?” Fjord asked, a sarcastic smile curling the corner of his mouth. “You’re perfectly diplomatic.”

Caleb sighed. “I do not believe ‘diplomatic’ is a word commonly used, no. But more importantly, I have...” He fidgeted with the sleeve cuff of his robes, searching for the right word that reserved some degree of vagueness. “I have work to be done, projects which I hope will be more successful than this. And, I am afraid that being sent here was a means of… distracting me from that. Delaying it. There are others like the Professor and her benefactors, even among my colleagues I am sure, though I do not know who, that would see this conflict persist or even escalate so long as it benefits them.”

“You’re trying to root ‘em out, huh?” Fjord surmised. 

“Yes,” Caleb sighed, wincing. “To varying success. ‘Trying’ is the operative word.”

The moments dragged out in if not a comfortable then at least a considerate silence, allowing Fjord to digest everything he’d dumped on him. 

“Seems like a fairly noble cause,” Fjord mused. 

Caleb huffed, doubtful. “A selfish and desperate one, no doubt.” 

Up until then, Fjord’s questions had each been intelligent, and his observations astute. That, along with the worry gnawing at the back of Caleb’s mind, made his next question all the more surprising. 

And stupid.

And sweet. 

But mostly stupid.

“Well, since we’ve already established that I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress,” Fjord began, with a grin that bode all sorts of trouble. “What can I do to help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all really showed up en masse in my inbox. Boy howdy. Thank you guys so much <3 <3 <3


	11. debrief

Nott was upset with him.

He hadn’t realized that he’d left the limited range of the earrings, and when she’d noticed that he was gone, well. At least she hadn’t started a manhunt. She did however have  _ words  _ with him when, the night air growing colder, the festivities throughout the city showing no sign of waning, and Fjord having gone a dangerous amount of time without checking up on his charges, Caleb had gone to collect her so that they could retire for the evening, feeling that his obligation to show his face at the gala had been met.

Rather suddenly, he had on his hands a  _ deeply  _ malcontented goblin who, in her intoxicated state, demonstrated no mind for maintaining her halfling disguise and no inhibition from telling him off, and loudly at that. For the moment, at least strategizing how best to get her home distracted him from playing and replaying his conversation with Fjord over in his head. What Fjord had said, how he had said it, what he looked like, how he’d  _ looked at Caleb _ … all in vivid detail.

“Nott, do not make me pick you up,” Caleb threatened uselessly. “You know I will do it.”

“You wouldn’t  _ dare _ ,” Nott hissed, dodging backwards out of his reach regardless. She jumped up on top of a chair, in the small conference chamber inside the Hall where Caleb had managed to sequester them. Nott jabbed a clawed finger in the air at him to emphasize her point, taking a swig from her flask with the other. “You’re  _ already  _ on my shit list, up and fucking off like that,” she rasped, glaring sharply.

“Nott, _bitte_ _Schatz_ , I am begging you, just ‒”

“No!  _ Not  _ before you tell me what the bastard man wanted that was so important,” she demanded, golden eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Caleb sighed, bone-weary and already feeling the creeping dregs of doubt and regret crawling up in the back of his mind to torment him over his decisions of the last hour. Turning away from Nott altogether and twisting the copper wire about his fingers, it was the work of a moment to send a message to the Lieutenant that he would be returning to the manor immediately, retiring for the night.

He had no interest in navigating the streets full of revelers with Nott and a platoon of Righteous Brand in tow. 

“Nott, take my hand,” he ordered, crossing the room and reaching out toward where she perched, swaying precariously. 

The stubborn look in her eyes and her whole body tensing like she was about to bolt had him stopping short, though. She shook her head, insistent. “Not until ‒”

“Nott the Brave, take my hand now.” The cold edge to his words, accompanied by the hardened look with which he met her glare, left little room for resistance. Still she hesitated, though her outrage wavered, expression softening to glassy-eyed worry. He took a breath, swallowed hard past the dryness of his throat. “Not here,” he said, pleaded, because he owed her that. They were well beyond orders and their wordless acceptance. “Not now.”

Her shoulders slumped, expression resigned for the moment at least, and tucking her flask away in her belt, she hopped off the chair and trudged across the floor to meet him halfway. Nott did not reach for his hand, but she did put her hand on his knee, leaning against him to support herself upright, and that would do. 

With a murmured word, he brushed his fingers lightly over the top of her head, ruffling her hair in the way that had her ears twitching as she reached up to swat his hand away, but already they were gone. The pressure of the spell amplified all around them with the instantaneous feeling of the floor suddenly regaining solidity beneath their feet, and Caleb opened his eyes to the foyer of the manor, the only location in the house where his warding permitted the teleport spell to take hold.

He felt Nott teeter against him, swearing under her breath. 

“Easy,  _ Schatz _ , we are back,” he murmured, petting her hair gently, taking a beat to reorient himself. “We ‒” 

Caleb froze, his skin crawling and shoulders drawing up tight as his back suddenly and awfully felt terribly exposed and every sense of self-preservation that had been hammered into him screaming in the back of his mind because  _ there should be one of his guards sitting in that chair _ .

Caleb spun around, Nott stumbled ‒ “What! Where!” she hollered, looking around feverishly as she didn’t know  _ what  _ was wrong but knew enough to know it  _ was  _ as he shoved her behind him ‒ and flame already crackled over his fingers, heat rolling off his forearms in waves summoned on instinct, burning a trail through the air and ‒ and he let it die. Quenched it with tightly closed fists just as rapidly as he’d conjured it.

Beauregard winced, closing her eyes and flinching back as one does when expecting a blow, but she didn’t move, didn’t even raise her arms against it. 

Caleb stood silently. Stared. Felt his face go slate cold.

The woman sat slumped sideways in a chair she’d relocated to just beneath the window next to the door, shoulders leaning heavily against the wall and one leg tucked up on the seat under her, hands draped loosely in her lap. There was something doleful in her expression, in the guilty twist to her mouth, the corner of it kept between her teeth. 

Caleb lowered his hands to his side, unhurried, and felt Nott right herself and scurry up in from of him again, huffing and glowering and taking up a wide protective stance, but the whole while he did not pull his eyes from Beau’s. 

She opened her mouth, closed it, eventually settling on grinning weakly, and distinctly apologetically, which was rare. “I expected you to use the door,” she said, some form of explanation as to where she sat, but a far cry from  _ why _ . 

It was only then that Caleb registered the bruises.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Look,” she said, and fuck, she even sounded pathetic to her own ears. It would have been so much easier if Caleb would’ve just incinerated her then and there, saved them all the trouble. “I get you might not exactly want to deal with this, or me, right now.”

“Do you,” Caleb asked, that cold, soft-spoken way of asking he had that didn’t sound so much like a question at all, but did wonders for making you doubt your own godsdamned intentions. The bastard was impossible to read, which only meant he was feeling  _ something  _ strongly enough to invest in her not knowing exactly what that was.

“Well,” she said, and with an elbow propped on the seat back, she rested her head against her fist, massaging her thumb into her temple. “Just guessing.” She paused a beat. “Am I wrong?”

His mouth turned down in a shallow frown, brows knit together as he studied her. She suppressed a shiver under the weight of it. Otherwise he remained silent. 

Nott however, not so much.

“What the fuck?” she swore, turning her head wildly between Caleb and Beau, and she could smell the booze wafting off of her. So she’d gotten a head start then. “Who the fuck?”

“Nott,” Caleb assuaged gently, some of the warmth bleeding back into his tone. His hand drifted away from his side a margin as if to still her. 

“Beau?” Nott asked, squinting at her and stepping right up to her chair, knobbly hands resting on Beau’s knee as she leaned in close, her expression a cocktail of doubt, alarm, concern, and a whole host of other emotions, but not anger or even suspicion anymore. “What the fuck happened to your face?!” she demanded, reaching up with both hands as if to grab her face between them, but she stopped herself, apparently thinking better of it.

Beau winced, shying away from the piercing high pitch and volume. She glanced from Nott to Caleb. His expression, his posture, was still a blank slate, relaxed, but with that degree of cautious tension that told her maybe he hadn’t made up his mind about how exactly he felt, or at least, what he was going to do.

“Just a little CPD, Nott,” she said, gently pushing her hands away, still hovering out between them. “Don’t worry about it. I’m good.”

She frowned, pawing at the space behind her cloak where she kept her folded up crossbow contraption. “Who?”

“Continuing professional development.” A pause. “Monk shit,” she elaborated more simply when Nott’s distrusting look didn’t shift. “Don’t worry about it,” she repeated. 

“Those appear a few days old,” Caleb observed mildly, and it was impossible to tell whether he was insinuating anything or even just fishing. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Still a bit of a bitch though.”

“Hm.”

She cleared her throat, tired of this weird standoff. “Look,” she tried again. “I’ll go if you want, leave you to your night or whatever, but…” She sighed, no better way to get to the point than to get right to it. Leaning forward, she reached down to the floor at the foot of her chair, sitting back up with her fingers curled around the unopened bottle of ungodly high-proof, impressively shitty liquor that she’d brought as a peace offering, holding it aloft. 

Caleb just raised an eyebrow. 

“Um, so this isn’t expensive, like, at all really,” she said, feeling stupid, “but it’ll fuck you up. And if you wanna talk, this is really the best apology I can offer right now.” That, at least, was honest.

There was a long pause, Beau looking at Caleb and Caleb staring back and Nott glancing between the both of them and the dark reflective glass of the bottle Beau held in hand. 

Finally though, flooding her with more relief than she expected, Caleb’s shoulders relaxed, the guarded tension draining out of him. He didn’t look angry. Just, tired. More so than usual. And maybe, when he was looking at her, eyes tracking over the multi-colored bruises and the split lip decorating her face, he looked worried.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” she parroted, not sure what that meant.

Caleb just shrugged. Avoiding her eye contact for a moment, he ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as he pulled the tie free. “There are some…We should talk.”

And yeah, that was true. Honestly, she wasn’t really expecting it, not being turned away. But she rolled up out of her chair with a mute, grateful nod, and followed behind him as he led her and Nott further inside.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord hadn’t even gotten a full sentence into explaining the new circumstances they found themselves in before it felt like they were fighting about it. And on and on it went, back and forth, no matter how many times he walked through it, no matter how many ways he tried to sell it. Though honestly, he was fooling himself if he thought he knew how to sell it at all.

But the walls of their suit in the Pillow Trove had seen some interesting and tense conversations in the time they’d been staying there. Quite frankly, he was surprised it hadn’t begun to peel the wallpaper. This was only the latest.

Molly dropped into the chair dramatically, face in his hands. “Oh gods. Alright. Alright, this is fine. This is fine,” he repeated, but whether he was reassuring himself or anyone else, there was no telling. He lifted his face, looking at Fjord accusatorily. “So you’re going to keep hanging out with the Archmage, for, what exactly? Appearances?”

Fjord inhaled slowly, praying to whoever was listening for patience. No matter. He’d explain as many times as they wanted. He owed them that. “He’s still got people to send reports to. And after tonight, well, crowds like that, rumors abound. I’ve already showed my hand. People may not know who we are, but they know we’re here and that we’ve, that  _ I’ve  _ at least, got business with him.”

There was something unimpressed in Molly’s red eyes. “Meanwhile, we rot in Zadash without any real reason for being here.”

“I thought you liked Zadash, Mols. Besides,” Fjord tried, “aren’t you just the least bit curious to see what’s going on here? To have a hand in it?”

“To be a pawn in a wizard’s chess game?” he asked, as if indignant that Fjord would even suggest it. “He’s not  _ that  _ cute.”

“Molly’s kind of right,” Jester observed, anxiously wringing her hands. “Haven’t we considered  _ why  _ he told you all this? He could be using you, using  _ us  _ somehow Fjord. We don’t know what he really wants...”

“This ain’t a half-assed whisper campaign,” Fjord continued, ignoring Molly’s dramatics. “And he’s hardly  _ using _ us, given we’re hardly doing anything but providing him cover. If that  _ is  _ using us, well, it’s not like we don’t know about it,” he said, turning to address Jester. She was pacing back and forth along the windows, yanking the curtains on each one closed on her first pass. “Jes, you talked about this job bein’ a good opportunity to get back in the Plank King’s good graces ‒”

“ _ Yeah _ ,” she huffed, face scrunched up in frustration as she paced around the room. Her tail snapped back and forth behind her, a sure indicator of her mood. “Thanks so much for reminding me of that Fjord, because it sure looks like he’ll be  _ super  _ happy with us because all of this was for  _ nothing,  _ and we’re gonna come back with  _ nothing  _ to show for it.”

Molly sighed, doubling forward over his knees, the heels of his palms pressed hard against his eyes. “He was  _ this  _ close,” he reminded them, sounding tired and serious and very unlike himself, “to having us drawn and quartered and all our bits and pieces thrown off the cliffs for what happened with Avantika. This doesn’t look good, Fjord.”

“Jester, you wanna talk about currying favor, who’s the more powerful ally to be in the good graces of right now?” Fjord offered. 

“Woah,” Jester cautioned, motioning for them to all slow down. “That’s sounding just a  _ little bit  _ like the ‘M’ word there, Captain,” she warned, a stage whisper that might have been accompanied by a sharp nudge in the ribs had she stood next to him, but no less serious. As if, even miles away from the water, the Plank King could still somehow sense the word ‘mutiny’ in passing conversation.

“That’s not what I mean. Just that this could be a useful opportunity. Who knows what we can make of it? Plank King’s got to realize that counts for  _ something _ .” He looked between them, desperate for some form of support, even just a little open-mindedness, nearly forgetting that Yasha was even there. He turned to where she leaned against the closed door, arms crossed and eyes cast down at the floor. “Yasha, you’ve been quiet. Thoughts?”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, expression uncertain. She was slow to respond. “I think, she began, voice soft, “we need a win with the Plank King. I’m nervous about going back empty handed.” Jester nodded fervently in agreement. “But at the same time, do we really think he sent  _ us  _ because he wanted some sort of deal with the Empire? Or was it because he just wanted to get rid of us ‒ of the Captain ‒ for a little while to let things in Darktow cool off.”

Jester considered it, sitting down on the arm of the couch and digging her sketchbook out from between the cushions. She tapped a pencil to her chin. “Better he sends us inland to get rid of you for a little bit Fjord, than  _ get rid of you _ to get rid of you.”

Fjord huffed. Caleb didn’t know it, but they could very well  _ both  _ be on their bosses’ shit lists.

Molly sighed, straightening up in his chair. He shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. He can throw Fjord a lot farther than he trusts him.”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes,” Fjord muttered, not that anyone paid attention.

Molly certainly ignored it. “I don’t blame him either. Isn’t really convincing, the whole ‘oh whoops, Avantika and I unleashed a terrible eldritch sea serpent, but while she wanted to usurp you and let it wreak destruction on the world, I promise my crew and I worked our asses off to make it nice and cozy on its own little plane and oh, by the way, I’m not interested in your job at all I swear’.”

“It was either release him, or he was gonna kill me and find somebody else to do it, Molly,” Fjord rebutted, crossing his arms. 

“Oh, we know that,” he said, a wide grin curling across his face. “Plank King’s not so sympathetic, though.”

“Or if Uk’atoa didn’t, Avantika would have,” Yasha spoke up again. Her expression darkened. “Or she would have tried.”

Jester’s tail lashed back and forth, eventually coiling around her own ankle. She folded her arms, lower lip pouting, but said nothing. Fjord didn’t know it was possible to maintain such a fierce grudge against someone even after they were dead.

“Alright enough, enough,” Molly finally demanded, throwing his hands up. “If we’re going to keep on with this, I ‒ we  _ all  _ ‒ could use a fucking drink.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The half empty bottle sat on the table by the fireplace. 

Another beside it, and another, and a few others Nott had raided from the cabinets once she’d starting pouring and mixing, having determined that even she didn’t want to drink whatever Beau had brought without doctoring it first. So what they’d been drinking, Caleb didn’t really know.

How much they’d been drinking, also hard to say. 

But Beau was sprawled out on the couch, a mountain of pillows at her back and one leg over the armrest. Nott was… she had been beside him a moment ago. Caleb looked around the drawing room, his vision swimming, not moving quite fast enough to keep up. He swayed where he sat cross-legged in the armchair across from Beau, pulling the throw pillow in his lap tighter to his chest for support. Frumpkin purred happily, lounging across the back of his chair and occasionally batting his ear for attention. 

It took a few blurry seconds, but he did find Nott eventually, laying on her back on the carpet, holding a jade beaded bracelet ‒ Beau’s jade beaded bracelet, how had she gotten that? ‒ up in the air above her face for close inspection as she fiddled with it.

Good, then. There was something very pleasing in its simplicity of having everything accounted for. He did not want to think about anything outside this room. Not now, not ever again, he would not do it. Gods, when did he become so  _ petulant _ he wondered, scowling. 

“All I’m sayin’,” Beau insisted, trying to clarify for the some number of time, perhaps the fourth, at least the third. “All um sayin’, s’never a  _ bad  _ idea to have a contingency. And, ya know,” she said, making a decent effort at shrugging a shoulder. “Menagerie Coast looks pretty good right ‘bout now.”

“Beauregard,” Caleb said, closing his eyes, shaking his head. He took care to enunciate clearly, slowly, carefully, because Common was a terrible language and why no one else learned Zemnian to accommodate  _ him  _ rather than the other way around, he did not know. “Beau.  _ Bitte, nein. Du kannst nicht  _ ‒” he stopped, frowning ‒ “you cannot ‒” that was right ‒  “you cannot run away to the, the eh,  _ Menagerie Coast _ ,” he finished, his tongue choosing to be difficult with the word.

“Why not? S’lovely I bet. Never been,” she mused. Then, thinking it over, laughed. “Think you could,” she paused, snapping her fingers, “right now, ya know? How wild would that be, if we just went right now…”

He laughed, lips pressed tightly together but still unable to stop his shoulders from shaking or the slow smile from uncurling from something warm and hazy in his chest. “No, no,” he warned, “definitely not.”

“Did someone say my name?” Nott rasped, lifting her head off the floor to look at them but not moving from where she lay spreadeagle on the thick carpet, slowly dragging her fingers through the texture of it. Beau’s bracelet was gone, Caleb observed. In one of a thousand pockets, no doubt. They were never seeing it again.

“No. No, we are, ah,” Caleb frowned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “We are discussing extradition. And, where we would go, if,  _ Ich weiß es nicht _ , if we needed to get out of the Empire.”

“Oh,” she said, head thunking gently back to the floor, eyes wide and glassy, wandering the ceiling. “I thought we might be talking about the pirates.”

“Now,” Caleb said, holding up a hand, trying to be stern, “we are not calling them pirates.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, man,” Beau shrugged, throwing back what was left in her cup. Caleb didn’t know how she could still be drinking. His thoughts were coming slow and fuzzy on the edges and he would have been perfectly content if he just melted into the upholstery. Even Nott had left her flask on the table. The woman, he decided, was not human.

“It is not what ‒” he shook his head, and oh, oh that was a bad idea. He held his breath, stomach turning. “It is not what makes me  _ feel better _ ,” he said, clarifying, always necessary to clarify, to be specific. Specific with words. Words were important. “The whole thing feels very bad.  _ Ach je _ , I ‒ very bad.” He doubled forward over his lap, and for one frightening moment considered whether he was going to be sick. But no, no, he closed his eyes, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, and pushed through it, breathing slowly through his nose.

There was a shifting sound, and when he opened his eyes Beauregard was sitting upright and looking at him with concern. “You good?”

“ _ Ja,  _ I am fine,” he brushed off. “Just need to sit down.”

She frowned. “You  _ are  _ sitting.”

“Lower.”

He ignored her snort of laughter, cackling as she flopped back against the couch. Scooting forward out of his chair, slowly, ever so carefully, limbs feeling just about as heavy and coordinated in their movement as molasses, Caleb lowered himself to the carpet. He leaned back against the chair, instantly feeling much better with the solid stretch of the floor beneath him. It was very secure, being on the floor. A moment later, Nott, the fiend, was scurrying to her feet and closing the distance between them to clamber up into his unclaimed seat. He didn’t object when he felt her fingers, still nimble, dragging through his hair, pulling loose strands out of his face and parting it into sections to braid.

It felt nice. A low hum escaped his chest without permission, pleased and appreciative. He didn’t feel it necessary to open his eyes, even hearing Beau across from him slide off the couch similarly, lowering herself to eye level on the floor. He could feel her looking at him though. With intent.

Frowning, he sighed. “I do not want to talk about the pirates,” he said, predicting where her interest was going.

“Why? I thought you liked ‘em?” Beau asked, something unsaid behind her words, behind her tone, though he couldn’t parse through it.

“When have I ever said that?”

“Dude, you fuckin’,” with an aborted, frustrated noise, she stopped, rolling her eyes. He didn’t see it, but he  _ heard  _ it. “You  _ lied _ to the Lawmaster to help them get away with the whole Temple scandal. You can’t hate them.”

Did he do that? Caleb frowned. Yes, he supposed he did. He had reasons though. There were always reasons. Because it was easier to make it go away. Because he did not think the punishment would fit the crime. Did he find the stunt a little funny? Maybe. Stupid, definitely. The pirates made stupid decisions often, he learned. But himself, no, he had reasons. “I told you, Beau. It was either, make it go away, or try to explain who they are and why they are here. I did not want to try to do that.”

“Uh-huh.” She put effort into making sure he knew that she didn’t believe a word of it.

“I weighed the merits and risks of either option.” 

“Sure.” 

“Your sarcasm,” Caleb sighed, cracking open his eyes and catching Beau’s gaze, “is not appreciated.”

“You did say you liked Fjord,” Nott piped up. “You said that quite explicitly. Unless Beau was lying what she told me that.”

Beau hummed in agreement, smirking lazily. “That you did.”

“Traitor,” Caleb mumbled, but forgave her immediately at the pleasant scrape of her short claws over his scalp, her gentle tugging pulling a long exhale from his chest. “I think they are interesting,” he said simply, though couldn’t find the energy to shrug. He felt far too heavy to move. And far too tired to think about these things. Still, they waited for an answer of some kind, or at least Beauregard did. He made an effort to collect himself, opening his eyes to look at her. “Why must I have an explanation prepared for you for all things I find interesting?”

“I don’t think she means  _ all things _ , Caleb,” Nott said, patting his head sympathetically. “Only the bad ideas.”

“Yeah, that. Why’re you getting all defensive all the sudden?” Beau asked with a deceptive disinterest, head tilted back against the couch, watching him sharply behind heavy-lidded eyes.

He was beginning to suspect she had not nearly as much to drink as he believed a moment ago.

He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to keep a level tone. “The only thing I am being is tired of explaining myself.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, “you’ve been avoiding my questions about what you planned to do about the pirates and about Eodwulf for weeks.”

Eodwulf. Beauregard’s words hit him with a physical jolt, that suspicion which had already begun to take shape, an ugly dark mass pressing outward against his ribcage, began worming its way into his throat. A cold band of iron descended around his lungs. Eodwulf. Dredging up the haze of panic, his mind raced.

Why address this now, and so intentionally? Had he not been clear about this? What was to be gained?

Questions leapt, tumbling and racing over themselves to ask _why_ she came here tonight, _where_ she had been all this time, what she _wanted_ , the impaired position he’d _put himself_ _in_ , and everything coursing through him more volatile for it. And all of it in time with the escalating beat of his own pulse in his ears. And he was slipping, slipping back into a place in himself where the voice of brutal self-preservation in the back of his mind was loudest. The one that he’d never succeeded in strangling and tearing out of himself, Astrid’s voice, Ikithon’s influence _he knew_ , he knew, but still it whispered, over and over again in rising volume: _Ambush_. _Ambush_. _She’s playing you._

The silence in the room was deafening. 

Beauregard, for her part, for whatever she saw change in him, stilled. Her features were both guarded and conflicted, and nervous in a manner he knew that he had caused, her eyes glancing sideways to Nott. She was standing by her now, facing him with a familiar look of unspoken concern. He hadn’t registered when she’d moved from the chair at his back to where she stood between them, in the seconds or minutes he’d lost… he didn’t know. 

“Caleb?” Nott’s voice, quiet, distant through the white noise in his ears.

_ No _ . With another physical jolt through his chest he straightened up, every muscle tensing, and the floodwall broke. Rejecting  _ violently _ the shroud that had fallen over his mind, fumbling and flailing to pull himself out from under it, everything at war with himself in his head spilled over into a physical reaction, cold and vacant veneer shattering.

A dry sob crawled its way into his throat, convulsed and died there. No, no, he breathed in, tried to, lungs catching, forcing shallow breaths in one at a time. Arms crossed and pressed tightly against his middle, nearly doubled over them, head bowed, he twisted his fingers harshly into the thin fabric of his sleeves, digging into the flesh underneath, blunt fingernails biting through sharply, grounding, not grounding enough. He was numbingly conscious of every scar underneath burning with the memories as sharp as the days he’d lived them.

Nott moved loudly, projecting all of it as she scooted closer.

He hated that she knew what this was. Hated himself for losing control. For listening to that voice, thinking those things.  _ Weak.  _ He refused to look up at her, couldn’t bring himself to, barely able to hiss out a breath between clenched teeth, much less muster a response. Much less explain what brought him right up to the edge, close enough to see the long drop into a dark familiar place at his fingertips.  _ Pathetic. _

Another moment though, and by sheer force of frustration with himself, he had his breathing under control.

“I am fine,” he hissed, a sick sort of energy still thrumming through his nerves, each feeling raw and exposed.

Nott was sitting now, halfway between himself and Beauregard, hands in her lap, fidgeting anxiously with the hem of her shirt. “Okay…” She didn’t sound confident, but he didn’t need her to believe him. He only needed them to move on like it didn’t happen. 

“You,” Caleb began slowly, voice coming to him low and gravelly, the reach for each word a struggle, “are meant to be answering questions, Beauregard. Not asking them.” His words were meant to be cold, controlled, fighting for each one to come out steady. He didn’t mean for them to be cruel. Yet when Caleb managed to drag his eyes up and across the carpet again, Beau’s eyes had fallen to the floor, and her expression crumpled. Something both saddened and horribly guilty crouched on her shoulders, the weight of it dragging them down toward the floor as well.

He hated that too.

She shrugged weakly, tongue probing at her still healing split lip. “S’fair.” Another brief pause. Nott glared at her. “Sorry.”

Though she didn’t make as if to speak again, and again, they lapsed into silence.

Slowly, slowly, he came back to himself. Though he still felt unsteady, and it didn’t feel the sort of unsteady that would pass anytime soon.

With tremendous effort, Caleb took a deep breath, exhaled, and straightened out his thoughts. “Tell you what,” he said, eyes cast down to where he was running his thumb over the cuff of one sleeve, a repetitive motion, stilling the churning inside his head. “We will make a deal, you and I.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “A deal?”

He hummed an affirmative, adjusting his shoulder blades against the chair more comfortably. “You,” he said, “are going to tell me where you have been for these number of days. I have, eh, a hunch, that it has something to do with your mentor coming to Zadash, when last I knew, until Felderwin, she was in Bladegarden.” He glanced up at her. Beau’s expression twitched, her eyes glassy but hard. “And I, I will tell you both something I should probably tell you both about today. About Fjord.”

Beau raised an eyebrow at that, but Nott leaned forward, scowling just a little. “You said nothing happened,” she accused, a sure sign she had more faith in how thoroughly he had recollected himself than he himself had. “You said ‒”

“I know what I said  _ Schatz _ ,” he interrupted, trying to do so softly, to marginal success. Every word he managed to force out still came cold and flat, weighed down with a weariness that was beginning to take hold in his bones. “I did not want to tell you everything while you were pitching a fit on top a table. I wanted to leave. You cannot blame me for that.”

Her scowl didn’t soften, but she rolled her eyes and quieted, her one shoulder shrug a begrudging, silent agreement with his point.

“And lastly,” Caleb said, taking a deep breath, working his way up to it. “Because, I do not want to dwell on this, come sun-up, no one gets to be angry.  _ Einverstanden?”  _ He took a steadying, measured breath. “We clear the air. Move forward.” 

His eyes met Beauregards for only a fleeting moment, but his intention, regarding what was to be said and what had been said already, was understood. 

It wasn’t that his offer was met with a chorus of agreement. More like an extended silence followed by begrudging notes of acceptance and half shrugs. But a deal was struck regardless. 

“So,” Beau huffed, eyes tracing across the wall over Caleb’s shoulders. “You want the long version, I guess?”

Caleb nodded once. “Let’s just… begin with the basics.”

“Basics. Right.” Beau heaved a sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her crossed arms atop them. “So, Dairon doesn’t trust you,” she began to rattle off a list on one hand. “They’re tryin’a figure out what you’re doing here, and pissed that I keep dodging the question. The Expositors think you’re meddling too much in the war, which I think is hilarious cause we’re tryin’ to do the same thing, right?” It didn’t sound funny to Caleb, or by the way she said it, to Beau either. “And they think that I’m either some sort of turncoat to the Order or that you’ve, like, brainwashed me or something, cause I’m not exactly forthcoming. But neither option speaks very highly of me,” she complained, grimacing in distaste.

“Is that ‒” he frowned. “Your recent absence. You were disciplined?”

“For like, a day,” she shrugged, something distinctly guilty in the way her eyes darted sideways at him. “I knew as soon as I showed up, I’d have to explain these.” She pointed to her face.

“Ah.” Delaying the inevitable then. He was familiar with that at least. “And who…?” he indicated to the bruises.

“Dairon,” she admitted, with no small effort. “They came outta nowhere, crazy bitch,” she muttered.

A pause. Caleb huffed, faint amusement drawn up through the tired haze. “Did you win?”

“Yeah. Does it matter? I should’ve come around sooner. This shit with the Cobalt Soul, it’s ‒ I’m sorry, man.” Her apology came low, almost too quiet to properly hear. She turned her head away, chin on her forearms. “I am.”

Caleb exhaled long and slow, letting his head thump gently against the armchair behind him. “Hold your apology, Beauregard. You are going to be angry with me in just a moment.”

“Why? What happened with Fjord?”

He chewed at the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t so much working up the nerve. He didn’t care if she knew. It was more working up to the energy to explain. “First, just know, it is not about  _ trust _ ,  _ ja _ ? It is ‒ he, they have no connections here, in Zadash or the Empire. No contacts, no favors or debts. Who would he even speak to? Would he even know the people that would find this sort of information valuable? And would he? I ‒ all of these things, I have given appropriate consideration.” 

And that wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, every excuse running through his head on repeat, challenging them again and again until he’d either thrown them aside or rested assured that they held water. And they did. They made sense. It was a calculated risk, telling Fjord the truth he’d told him, but he’d done the calculation. Only… he should have done it  _ first _ . Before acting on gut inclination. He knew that. And because  _ he knew _ that he knew better, it made it all that much worse. 

He was fooling himself.  _ Idiot _ . 

“Widogast…” Beau intoned, narrowing her eyes at him. “What’d you do?”

“I ‒ he asked if I  _ wanted  _ this treaty and I ‒”

“He what?” Nott interjected with shrill surprise.

“I did not lie. I told him everything short of Bladegarden. My suspicions. Nothing specific.”

“Oh my  _ gods, _ Caleb,” Beau breathed, closing her eyes, frustrated groan muffled in her hands. 

“You  _ what _ ?” Nott stared at him, mouth open.

Caleb closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was defend himself, but logically, some of his reasoning deserved it. “It is so much more efficient if we move forward on the same page ‒”

Beauregard groaned again, a touch dramatic. “You big, fucking  _ dumb ‒ _ ”

“Beauregard…”

“‒ soft idiot.” She wasn’t yelling, hardly even raised her voice, only matched him in just how tired she sounded, with an added layer of disappointment. 

Nott didn’t look any more pleased at the revelation, but she still frowned at that. “I don’t think name-calling’s going to get us anywhere.”

Caleb closed his eyes, the back of his head hitting the chair cushion with a dull thump that wasn’t nearly as punishing as he wished it were.

“I haven’t even started calling people names, Nott.”

“Well good. You’re hardly in a position to, after  _ you  _ just ‒”

“Hey, don’t point at me like that, okay? I said I’m sorry and I dropped it. We’re talking about  _ him  _ now.”

“Well I’m not done with you, missy.”

“Fact of the matter is, I keep my trap shut about what we’re doing here in front of Dairon and the Cobalt Soul, and he spills his guts to the first pretty boy who asks.”

Nott scoffed. Caleb sighed. “ _ Beauregard _ , that is not ‒”

“Gods, that’s such a me move that I can’t even get mad about it.”

“ _ Beau.”  _

“You know this is really not the sort of solidarity I’m here for.”

No use. None of it was any use.

The low back and forth of Beau and Nott’s continued bickering began to meld with the thrumming in his head. Gradually, he slipped out of the argument entirely, the two women having their go at each other, Nott generously taking his defense and Beauregard putting up her own. It came as a relief, honestly, to fade into the backdrop for just a moment, to have the only eyes on him Frumpkin’s, wide and gold and nonjudgmental. 

Without asking him to ‒ and, still being honest with himself, he’d had one too many drinks to even consider conveying or receiving anything from Frumpkin more articulate than base emotions at this point ‒ the cat leaped down from his perch and trodded over to Caleb’s lap, butting his head gently against the inside of his knee before flopping over on the carpet. His low purring soothed through the mess reverberating around inside Caleb’s head, fur soft and familiar under his hands. 

For the first time since Eodwulf’s name had been brought up, along with all the unanswered questions and guilt-ridden doubts associated with it which Caleb had been avoiding like the plague, the world slowed down, his heart rate slowing to match, and the last remaining bands of relentless pressure around his chest melted away.

Yet, it wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. This reprieve… kind as it was, was only temporary. There were still explanations to be offered and questions to be answered. His old friend could wait, and if Caleb had his way, would continue to do so. But these other matters could not.

And there were a handful of hours until sun-up still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never not be amazed and grateful for how y'all keep showing up in the comments and kudos <3 I love you dearly. If you'd like more critrole content from meeeee it's high time I link my AO3 and tumblr accounts. Catch me on that blue hellsite at: wytch-lyghts


	12. deteriorating lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you get to the last section, which begins "It was late. It had been late for a while", you are legally required to queue the song ["Devil Like Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rB3GPb-ylVI) by Rainbow Kitten Surprise. 
> 
> That's the widofjord song rec of the day.

It must have said something about his investment in the report Nott had procured from her contacts in the border towns that, not only did he not hear the footsteps, but in the few moments it took his visitor to set off the silver wire alarm at the top of the stairs and pass down the length of the hallway, Caleb had managed to dismiss the faint ringing in his ears, and jolted in surprise at the knocking at the study door. 

The pages nearly slipped from his fingers, his knee banging the underside of the heavy wooden desk. Hissing in pain and annoyance, he rubbed at the forming bruise, glaring at the closed door.

“Archmage?” Rune’s voice was barely loud enough to make it clearly through the door. “Emissary from the Coast’s arrived. Shall I bring him up?”

_ Scheisse. _

Caleb looked up from his stack of files to that clock set in the mantle of the fireplace, more out of instinct that necessity. Barely ten till the top of the hour. He’d lost track of time. Swearing to himself, he stood hastily, throwing a quick glance about the room. They were ten minutes early, his study was still a royal mess, and he’d lost track of time. 

Caleb sighed at the empty room, swearing under his breath.

“Archmage?” Another knock, more hesitant.

“ _ Ja _ , bring them up,” he said, louder. “But, take your time about it.”

“Understood.” Then there was only silence at the door.

He’d already gone through once with the intention of tidying the room up a bit, but only got as far as making sure nothing confidential or otherwise important had been left out where an indiscreet tiefling or two might steal a peek, before Beauregard and Nott had barged in as the situation surrounding the Kryn occupation of the Ashguard garrison continued to develop. That meant the mountains of books, files, ledgers, scrolls, maps, and other documentation that grew from every surface remained. And left very little available sitting room.

Caleb hurriedly scooped up the papers lying across his desk into an orderly stack and closed the file, moving around his desk to begin relocating stacks of books from the seat of the nearest armchair to rest temporarily atop the maps adorning the table by the fireplace. It was not a quick task ‒ indeed it was one he refused to allow Nott to do earlier for fear of her setting off an avalanche that might bury her, small thing she was ‒ and thus he’d only cleared one chair and was just making headway on a second when the alarm at the top of the staircase chimed again. 

Muttering to himself the whole way, in his last few seconds of preparation, Caleb abandoned trying to fix the space and instead devoted a spare thought to making sure he himself looked presentable. It was nearly four in the afternoon and he hadn’t so much as seen sunlight today, nevermind checked a mirror. He leaned around a chest of paper and ink on the ground to peer across the room into the polished decorative plate mail on the wall, smoothing a hand through his hair and re-tying it out of his face. It was a little late to do anything about the ink stains on his hands, he realized with a frown, but he could at least tuck the loose tail of his shirt back into his trousers. Still, that didn’t seem to do anything to ease the rate at which his heart was trying to escape his ribcage, for whatever its reason.

Another knock at the door.

With another begrudging sigh, Caleb turned toward the door of the study, leaning back against the edge of his desk. He took a breath, consciously stilling the automatic tapping of his fingers against the wood. He’d been playing how this might go through his head for over two days, never even able to settle on the most likely option. That left only one way to find out. 

“Come in.”

The door opened, and for a second Caleb saw Rune greet him with a polite nod from the hallway before a familiar half-orc stepped through. 

To his surprise though, Fjord stepped through alone, and the door closed, leaving Caleb with a confused expression on his face and his mouth half open with an unasked question. Fjord stood by the doorway, looking once around the study with a curious cocked eyebrow before his eyes landed on Caleb. When they did, Caleb got the distinct impression of being sized up, or perhaps being instinctively searched for weapons, as he’d seen plenty of soldiers become accustomed to ‒ perhaps a pirate captain’s experience with the constant threat of violence was no different? 

“What,” Caleb asked, deadpan, “no duo of colorful tieflings? No large woman to stand there and look intimidating?” he asked, crossing his arms. But he was patient, tolerating Fjord’s looking. “I hope I have not scared them off…”

Fjord let a sure, lopsided grin slip over his mouth, tip of one pointed tusk peeking through where a canine would be, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. And, Caleb would be the first to admit, with Fjord’s sleeves rolled up to the elbow and shirt pulled taut across his shoulders in all the right places, he most definitely cut a more imposing figure doing it. He shook his head, leveling a chastising look at Caleb. “Ya know, they’ve got names.” 

Caleb hummed a faint note of surprise, as if this were a revelation to him. “Ah.” He leaned more heavily against the desk, ankles crossed, tilting his head back as he lazily appraised the other man where he still stood across the room. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Fjord huffed, shallow and sharp. “You enjoy playing at bein’ a prick, or that just come naturally?”

Caleb grinned. “Born with a talent, I think.”

“I’m sure.” Fjord looked away for a second pass at the study. “But ah, anyway,” he continued, “Molly and Jester didn’t want to ah, spend their time foolin’ around with political misdirection.”

Caleb shrugged a shoulder, but couldn’t help but grin. “But they would spend their time going to see the carnival setting up outside the city walls,  _ ja _ ?”

Fjord narrowed his eyes at him. “And how would you know that, I wonder?”

“Educated guess.”

“Huh. Well, yeah,” Fjord admitted, ducking his head slightly as he ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, “They wanted, well, there were some choice words about rather seein’ one clown show than another ‒” both of Caleb’s eyebrows went up at that ‒ “but long story short, those two are otherwise occupied and I left Yasha in charge.”

“I see. Interesting.” Enough silent moments Caleb spent openly observing the other man slipped by that Fjord began to squirm under his gaze. He was attempting to find an answer, to what exactly he did not know, but there was a nagging bit of interest in the back of his mind, a thought about to form like words on the tip of his tongue but  _ just  _ out of reach. No matter. Caleb cleared his throat, pulling his gaze away to the windows. “Well I must say I am relieved it is just the two of us then,” he said, rolling up off the edge of the desk and returning to his chair behind it. 

“Wha- Oh?” It wasn’t an especially articulate question, the stilt of it a little odd too. Fjord’s expression frozen around the syllable, his eyes wide in surprise.

Caleb cocked his head, perplexed, not sure where the confusion lie. He motioned at the room around them, in all its organized chaos. “I‒ I do not believe I could fit three more bodies in this room, Mr. Fjord,” Caleb elaborated dryly, reluctantly, finding sudden interest in unstacking and re-sorting the files on his desk to avoid eye contact. And all at once, in a wave of trepidation and embarrassment, he was reconsidering this plan of his. 

“Oh,” Fjord laughed awkwardly. He cleared his throat, and quickly serious, said, “Right.” Still not looking up form the text, Caleb heard quiet footsteps across the thick carpet and the shifting creak of leather as Fjord lowered himself into the only unoccupied seat, one of two chairs directly opposite the desk.

Caleb found reason to frown down at the report he’d picked up at random, bending the corners of the pages in hand back and forth, back and forth between his fingers.

“So, Caleb, even tho‒”  Fjord stopped himself short, and against his better judgement, Caleb glanced up across the desk. 

“Hm?”

“Ah, this is one of  _ those  _ times, that I can call you that?” he clarified, and something about his uncertainty about getting such a small formality right was charming, really.

And at least, perhaps, Caleb wasn’t the only one who felt on the wrong foot entirely at this shift in their arrangement, their mutual purpose, their... whatever it was. Previously, there had been an understanding; a sort of tense and unwilling one, but an understanding nonetheless that they had their own adverse goals which, for a few brief moments merely by coincidence or because it was easier on Caleb’s part, aligned. Now, the curtains had been drawn back, that arrangement exposed for what it was, and the line in the sand between them which had been so reassuring before, which Caleb could always retreat behind, had been worn away entirely. And it was his own fault, crossing over it so many times as he had. His own damn fault.

The issue was that this was no longer a zero-sum game. And Caleb wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

Caleb huffed a quiet laugh, but it was relief more than humor that lightened the weight on his shoulders. He nodded slightly, humming an affirmative around a small smile. “I would prefer it, yes.”

“Right. So. Even those guys still aren’t in on this whole ruse?” Fjord asked, waving in the direction of the door and Rune’s retreating footsteps on the stairs.

“They never were,” Caleb said. “That, and because I do not trust them not to talk if the right person asks it of them, are among the primary reasons I would like to, ah, keep up appearances.”

“You don’t trust them?” 

Caleb was hesitant to go as far as agreeing with that. “They are soldiers. They follow orders. I do not believe they are fond enough of me to obfuscate the truth if a superior officer asked it of them.”

“I see. Well then. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here, keepin’ up appearances...” Fjord said, sliding lower in his chair, getting comfortable.

Caleb frowned. “That is rather minimizing your previous, ah, curiosity, wouldn’t you say? You proved yourself to be a rather quick study before…”

“My my, Mr. Widogast,” Fjord said, leaning forward on his knees as he looked up at him with a wolfish grin where Caleb still leaned against the front of the desk. “What exactly are your propositioning?”

“I am‒ I am not‒” Caleb inexplicably felt warm about the collar, and turned away, looking obstinately toward the drawn window curtains. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to turn back to where Fjord was now giving him an expectant yet entirely too innocent look. “Only that you may have some use yet, Mr. Fjord.”

“Well then,” Fjord scoffed, though he was grinning easily. “I’d best get a move on bein’ useful.”

“As should we all, Mr. Fjord,” Caleb chided. “As should we all.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It would not be the first time he lost track of time. 

Before the week was out, Fjord was letting himself in, the heavy sound of the door to the study closing reverberating through the room and jarring Caleb from his thoughts.

“Mornin’,” Fjord greeted cheerily from just inside the threshold, somewhere over Caleb’s shoulder.

There was a pause, a pause usually filled by Fjord making his way over to the chair Caleb made sure was clear for him, but it was instead followed by footsteps over the carpet toward where Caleb sat beneath the window, one boot propped on the edge of the table, chair leaned back on two legs, and what he was sure was a perplexed expression on his face.

“Mhm,” Caleb acknowledged, biting at the inside of his cheek, but otherwise didn’t pull his eyes away from the document he held in front of him. “Not every door needs slamming.”

Fjord sighed. “That’s not what a door slamming sounds like.”

Caleb huffed his disagreement, but let the topic drop.

“May I ask why?” Fjord asked.

“Why what?”

“Why morning?” Fjord clarified, barely. His voice brushed warm and low near Caleb’s ear in a way that had Caleb’s throat going dry, suddenly hyper-aware of the invasion of his personal space as Fjord stooped to read over Caleb’s shoulder.

Caleb lifted a hand to wave him off or push him away, but Fjord just caught his wrist, holding firm when Caleb tried to tug away. Caleb twisted around to scowl at Fjord over his shoulder.  “Would you like me to explain the planar orbit to you?” he asked, with no shortage of sarcasm.

“As riveting as that sounds,” Fjord began, “I think I’ve got the basics, thanks.” His grip on Caleb’s wrist loosened, and Caleb snatched his hand back. “Why not this evening?” Fjord continued, leaning with his elbow on the back of Caleb’s chair, which dipped precariously. The delicate balance he’d struck threatened, Caleb jerked forward, breath catching sharply in alarm, to which Fjord only chuckled. “Every other time, I’ve come in, said good evenin’, and sat right there, while you sat at that desk and looked all frustrated-like at what you’ve been reading. Only one of those things is consistent right now.”

“Nott returns from Ashguard this evening,” Caleb said by way of explanation as Fjord straightened up and all four chair legs returned to the floor. He did his best to ignore the man still hovering over him. The man was worse than Frumpkin when the cat was at his worst, looking for attention. “And there is better light at the window.”

“Ah. And here I got to thinking you just weren’t a morning person.”

“Who is?” he intoned, shuffling the top page to the back of the pile and continuing to skim through the passages. “What is the farthest you have ever sailed East?”

The question seemed to catch him by surprise. “East?”

“Yes.”

Fjord pulled the chair next to his out from the table, dropping into it. “Not far. From the Coast, everything sails West toward Tal’Dorei, then about two-thirds that hits the southern tip of the continent and cuts down to Marquet. There’s nothing out East. Nothing nice, anyway.”

“Nothing?”

“‘Cept for storms that’ll put hailstones the size of your fist through a deck and plenty of beasties I’d rather not wrangle with.” 

Caleb looked up from the travel stained and creased papers in his hand. “You have not answered my original question.”

Fjord rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, “went and picked up your bad habit, didn’t I.” Regardless, he stood from his seat and leaned out over the map that adorned the table, one hand tracing over marked shipping lines. Caleb watched with interest as he studied it, eyes scanning over the area just South of Xhorhas. “There may,” he said, “ _ may _ ,” giving Caleb a look, “have been a brief excursion near this inlet here.” Caleb leaned forward to see where he was pointing, just around the southern tip of Xhorhas, a little shy of where two rivers bled inward to Fevergulf Lake.

“You have been to Xhorhas?” he asked, intrigued.

“I said brief,” Fjord said, frowning down at the map before lifting his eyes back up to where Caleb watched with interest. “And off the record. Yasha had a thing. When it was done, we didn’t stick around.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “A thing?” 

Fjord’s expression darkened, though Caleb sensed it was more the memory than his asking about it. He sighed, pulling his gaze from the table and sitting back in the chair. “Yasha’s from southern Xhorhas.” His eyes flitted over Caleb’s face. “But you knew that.”

He shrugged. “I have only seen the southern tribesmen wear their hair and clothing like that.”

Fjord nodded, unsurprised. “Yeah, s’pretty distinctive. But you were fine with a Xhorhasian sitting in on these meetings in the beginning?”

Caleb nodded.

“Because if she were a spy, that’s just more misdirection,” Fjord concluded, thinking quietly to himself for a moment. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of this politics thing,” he said, not entirely pleased with it.

Caleb smiled sympathetically in return. “I am sorry for your misfortune.”

“I’d hope so. It’s your damn fault.”

Caleb laughed, shaking his head. “Well, perhaps you can return the favor, teach me something in return.”

Fjord’s brow went up. “Oh?”

“I was, ah, hoping you might have some insight,” he admitted. “What do you make of this?” Caleb flicking his eyes back down to the papers in hand. Finding his place, he began to read: “The quartermaster reported believing the night watch’s alleged sightings to be the result of drunkenness, and the men were disciplined accordingly. The coastline was over four miles out; the Captain reasons that no deserter would throw themself over the railings in the middle of the night in unfamiliar waters to swim‒”

“I wouldn’t put it past anyone,” Fjord cautioned. “Men do unpredictable things when they’re piss drunk and scared shitless at sea.”

Caleb held up a hand. “Just, wait.” He resumed, reading. “‒to swim for the shore of Xhorhas. Still, within the week, three more sailors vanished on night watch, in one incident men reporting seeing the man fall from the rigging and out of the lantern light yet never hit the water. Adding to the panic, even when moored off Jagtooth to await resupply, none of the men’s bodies were recovered in the water or found ashore come morning.” 

Caleb stopped and looked up at Fjord, whose eyes were fixed in the distance. Fjord was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Huh. Seems to more your ship’s got a harpy problem.”

“Harpies?”

“Oh yeah. Big ugly bird hags,” Fjord clarified, looking to Caleb for some sign of recognition. “Those things’ll follow a ship for days. Sailors make for easy pickings. Can’t say I’ve ever run into any around Xhorhas and I’m unfamiliar with Jagtooth, but, like I said, I don’t make it routine to bring a ship that way.”

“That is… possible.” Caleb scratched through his short beard, thinking a moment more. “Shame.”

“What happened?”

He turned to the last page, glancing over it again. “The captain did not handle the panic well, apparently,” he summarized. “It only took another week and two more bodies for the crew to mutiny.”

“Soldiers?”

“In transport, yes,” Caleb agreed, sighing down at the paper.

“What happened?” Fjord asked, sighing with a heaviness that suggested he already knew the answer.

Caleb folded the papers closed, still staring down at them a moment more. “This incident report was compiled after the crew’s execution,” he said quietly. “In the interest of better understanding the cause and preventing more widespread rebellion.”

“You didn’t think to ask why  _ before  _ they were executed?” Fjord asked, indignant and morose. 

Caleb felt something tight and cold curl around his chest. Quietly, calmly, he explained, “You are right to take issue, though I had nothing to do with ‒”

“I know,” Fjord was quick to amend, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think ‒ I only meant the Empire. Whoever made that call.” 

Caleb made a small note of acknowledgement, but otherwise remained silent.

Fjord too was quiet for a moment, his expression twisting into something deeply disapproving. “Might as well have fed ‘em to the harpies,” he said cooly, “poor bastards.”

“I never said I approved of this,” Caleb added, looking, watching Fjord’s expression, hoping to find something in the way Fjord was looking back that wasn’t condemning. The thought of it had that band biting like cold metal as it closed tighter around his chest. “I do not.”

The harsh line of Fjord’s mouth softened. “I know.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Quickly enough, they fell into some sort of odd routine.

Caleb at least seemed to appreciate routine. Fjord tended to grow bored with things that left no room for spontaneity, but besides for the where and when, he could never predict exactly how his time with the Archmage was going to go. Throughout the first week, he’d rapidly developed a clearer understanding than he ever would have thought possible of the brutal geopolitics of Wildemount, frequently unfolding in real time, and Caleb didn’t seem to mind sharing it. Sometimes he, and Fjord too, downright enjoyed it.

But for the moment, for the last  _ few  _ moments, they seemed to be going in the direction of companionable silence.

Fjord didn’t mind it, per se. But, against his best efforts, it began to wear on him. He slowly walked the length of the table, glancing at the large map of Wildemount spread across it, books weighing the corners down at the ends. The study was quiet except for the scratch of Caleb’s quill on parchment at the desk behind him and the sound of pages turning as Fjord idly flipped open books that caught his eye. Apparently, the largest and most boring tomes had been selected for the job of holding down the map corners. Fjord picked one up, titled Elvish Etymology, and slid another in its place to hold the corner of the map down. But he only held it long enough to figure out what exactly that second word in the title meant. 

He grimaced, setting it back down on the table with a heavy thud. He heard a quiet chuckle behind him, turning over his shoulder quickly enough to see Caleb drop his head back down to look at the letter on his desk, not quite hiding the wry smirk twisting the corners of his lips. 

“You writin’ something funny over there?”

Caleb replaced his quill in the ink tray, fingers drumming over the desktop. His eyes flew up to meet Fjord’s, startlingly blue. “That one not suit your liking?”

Fjord rapped the cover of the tome with two knuckles. “This old thing? Nah, why wouldn’t I be interested in ‒” he paused to flick the cover back open to the first page, title written in Elvish with Common script beneath ‒ “the etymology of pre-divergence Sylvan and modern delineation of Elvish dialects?”

“Hm. Perhaps not a good start for beginners, eh?” Caleb remarked, amused. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve read this…” Fjord pleaded, pained by even the thought of it and making sure to show it.

Caleb just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I have.”

“And why would you do that to yourself?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Well, one has to teach themself Sylvan somehow,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Speaking it is one thing, but learning to read and write it is a separate endeavour entirely.” 

The worst part of it was, he looked and sounded completely serious. “You what?” Fjord asked, voice falling flat.

“I do not understand your, whatever this is,” Caleb said earnestly, gesturing at all of him, frowning. “Once you know Elvish, it is not that difficult to pick up ‒” 

“Now, hold on just one second,” Fjord interrupted, hopping up to sit on the edge of the table, facing Caleb. “How many languages do you know exactly?”

Caleb heaved a sigh, glowering. “You are worse than Beauregard, you know?”

“How many, Widogast?”

“A few.”

“How many?” 

“I said a few.”

Fjord rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ nerd.” 

Caleb sighed, massaging his temple and turning his attention back to what he was writing, falling silent.

Fjord shook his head, grinning to himself, but relenting. Caleb had said the letter was urgent, to Archmage Da’leth, whom Fjord was coming to understand was an important person Caleb needed to convince of his war hawk conspiracy theory. The next few books he pulled off the top of a stack were equally boring: histories and encyclopedias of continents, cities, cultures, religions, races, languages, and so forth. Nothing interesting. He kept looking.

“You know, you were right about that Lord Ver’sys fella,” Fjord acknowledged as he scanned the stacks. He knew Caleb had asked for a few minutes of quiet before they got into this properly, but Fjord wasn’t one for idle hands. 

Caleb hummed quietly, still writing. “Was I.” He didn’t sound like he doubted it.

“Made an appearance at the Pillow Trove the night before last.”

That, however, might’ve surprised him. Slowly, Caleb straightened up to look at Fjord, setting his quill aside entirely, a sure sign he had his attention. “That was fast,” he admitted, frowning down at the desk. “And?”

Fjord made his way across the room again, leaning on the back of the seat he’d abandoned. “Yasha’s been sitting on him, though he hasn’t done much. Hasn’t really left. But Molly and Jester have been following a few of his men around the city.”

“I see.” Caleb was quiet for a moment, gaze distant. He exhaled heavily, rubbing his eyes. “ _ Scheisse _ , I was hoping he would lie low for a while longer.”

“On to bigger fish?” Fjord asked, only partly joking.

Caleb huffed. “In a way. What, ah, what were they doing exactly? These men?”

“Are,” Fjord corrected. “Still here. But so far they’ve harassed some guards for information and popped down for a jail visit, but beyond figuring out that they had a brief meeting with the warden, Molly and Jes weren’t able to get inside for that one. Jester said she’d message if they got up to anything too serious today.”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Alright. I will, ah, I will have Beauregard keep an eye on the professor,” he decided, eyes darting around the room but eventually coming back to Fjord. “ _ Danke _ , Fjord. Thank you.” His eye contact seemed a bit forced by Fjord’s reckoning, but it was a genuine effort.  

Fjord nodded, smiling. “Sure.”

“And your friends, they were-  _ are _ , fine with this?” Even as he said it, Caleb seemed doubtful.

“Between you and me,” Fjord said, grinning, “I’m fairly certain they’re thrilled to have something just a little bit ill-advised to do. Keeps ‘em busy. Plus,” Fjord shrugged, “they’ll never tell you, but this spy shit is growing on them.”

Caleb chuckled, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear like Fjord had been itching to do for the past five minutes. That seemed to draw the exchange to a close however, at least for the moment, and Caleb turned his attention back to the parchment and ink before him.

Sighing, Fjord resumed idly searching the stacks for something distracting. There was something… unsatisfied, curling in the pit of his belly, turning over and over every so often to remind him it was still there. Nothing much here struck his fancy though, his eyes still mutinously darting back to Caleb every so often despite himself, to the loose auburn strands of hair falling out of place, or the soft bow of his mouth.

Fjord scolded himself, forcing himself to pick up another book and read over the first page, thought he didn’t really retain any of it. There was a goddamn itch under his skin that he wasn’t allowed to scratch, put there ever since that thrice damned dream. Fjord never did well with things he wasn’t supposed to touch. 

Despite himself, he did end up spying a particularly oddly bound book that caught his eye, as if it had fallen off the top, almost lost under a stray folded map of the Menagerie Coast.

He picked it up, frowning down at the cover, old leather pressed with a simple design of a flag and the emblem it bore. A familiar emblem. The colors of The Revelry. The spine read, pressed in tiny, peeling gold leaf, ‘Histories and Entities of the Lucidian Ocean’. 

Fjord glanced up at Caleb, still nose down and fully occupied with his work. Quickly, he began flipping through the pages, mostly ignoring the text in favor of paying attention to the sketches inside, plenty he didn’t recognize, but also a good many he did. There were trade company and guild sigils, various Clovis Concord and port city marks of station, and dozens and dozens of ships’ colors, both legally registered and those known through more infamous means. 

Curiosity gnawing at his insides, Fjord began turning through the sketches and descriptions of pirate flags. His gut twisted just a little when he came across the likeness of the Squall-Eater’s flag. Chewing at his bottom lip, he continued turning, wondering if maybe, just maybe…

Ah. There she was. With some degree of pride swelling in his chest, Fjord looked on at a fair rendition of the colors of the Grave Mistake, a low chuckle bubbling up in his chest. Not much was written below in the description beyond the ship’s name, the date of its first reported sighting, a noted affiliation with the Revelry, and a reference to a Captain Tusktooth with the vessel’s renaming, and a Captain Vandran before that. And that last bit, well, that did serve to deflate him just a little.

Fjord walked quietly back to the desk. When he dropped the book in front of Caleb’s nose with a heavy thud, the man flinched sharply, ink blotting the page.

_ “Scheisse _ ‒ Fjord!” he barked, indignant, glaring first up at Fjord then moodily down at the jerky line of ink he’d left on the parchment. “You did that on purpose.”

“What’s this then?” Fjord asked, keeping his tone light, smiling pleasantly.

“I don’t ‒ It is a book,” he said. Picking it up and, turning it over in his hands for a closer inspection, he muttered, “Which you should be a little more gentle with. It is old.” Still, a shrouded thought flashed through his eyes as he studied the cover.

“Why this particular book, eh?”

If it were possible, Caleb glared harder. “Because I do my homework. Fjord _.  _ Now, was there anything else, or did you simply want attent‒” 

He made a frustrated, strangled noise when Fjord grabbed the book from his hands again. “Nah, that’s it. Mind if I take this?”

“I do indeed m‒  _ Fjord!”  _ That frustrated, strangled noise from before was nothing in comparison to the wounded sound he made when Fjord flipped the book back open to the page he’d dog-eared concerning his own ship and tore it straight from the stitching. 

Eyes narrowed and teeth bared, Caleb lunged forward to seize the abused book from his hands, desk between them rattling and papers fluttering to the floor, but Fjord darted backward just fast enough. “Easy, easy now,” Fjord cautioned, tucking the removed page into his inside coat pocket then holding his free hand out toward Caleb as one might calm a spooked animal.

Caleb swore harshly, something low and growling and undoubtedly unkind in Zemnian. He slid back off the desk, stalking around it to stand in front of Fjord. “Deface all the temples you want,” he warned. “I draw the line at ‒”

“Alright, alright, point taken,” Fjord assuaged, backing up between the table and the Archmage stalking closer. “Won’t happen again.”

Fjord held his breath as Caleb came nearly toe to toe with him, blue eyes dark with a sharp intensity Fjord hadn’t been on the receiving end of before, chin tilted up defiantly to meet his gaze and jaw tight, not with anger exactly but something more deeply annoyed. Fjord keenly felt the narrow few inches of air that burned hot between them where they stood. He slowly lowered his hands to his side, his eyes locked on Caleb’s.

“Do not,” Caleb warned, voice low and little more than a whisper between them, the breath of each word brushing hot against Fjord’s throat, “do that. Again.” 

Fjord swallowed, doing his best to ignore how his heart leapt into his throat, too afraid to move at all for fear of moving closer. 

Fjord didn’t see Caleb reach forward, too fixated on the man’s face only a few inches from his own, on his mouth, teeth still bared halfway to a slowly fading snarl. But he tried not to twitch when he felt Caleb’s fingers brush against his forearm, trailing down it lightly to his wrist and hand and eventually the book Fjord held in it, closing around the leather binding and pulling it away with a gentle tug. Fjord released it obediently. Apparently that was response enough. 

“Good,” Caleb murmured, and Fjord would’ve sworn he saw the ghost a smirk dance dangerously at the edge of his mouth. Caleb tucked the damaged book beneath one arm.

Fjord was focused enough on that smirk as it was, and could barely keep track of where Caleb’s hands had gone without stepping backward, which he wasn’t sure he could do if he tried. And so a physical jolt of electricity travelled through him at the featherlight pressure of Caleb’s fingers gliding up the inside line of his coat, up the middle of his chest to wrap tightly around his lapel, tugging firmly once, just enough to feel the sharp jerk forward without moving him. 

“And…” Caleb breathed, grip on his collar loosening, the hand sliding inside Fjord’s coat instead, where he was sure Caleb must have felt his heart hammering against the surface of his skin. Caleb nimbly located the inside pocket and, fingers dipping inside, tugged the folded scrap of paper free. Withdrawing his hand, Caleb unfolded the paper in the narrow space between them, glancing down at it with a definite smirk now. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting an explanation.

Quietly, Fjord cleared his throat, which did nothing to stop his voice from coming out low and gravelly. “Call it a keepsake,” he managed to say, far too breathy, with an uncertain smile.

Caleb huffed an amused breath, blue eyes darting back up to Fjord’s. “Hm.” He paused for a long moment, or maybe only a few seconds. Really, it was impossible to tell. “Very well.”

“Beg pardon?”

Apparently mollified, smirk fading slightly but still holding, Caleb refolded the piece of paper in his hand, and retracing his path, returned it to Fjord’s coat pocket. Withdrawing his hand again, Caleb patted Fjord’s chest overtop of the pocket just once before folding both hands behind his back. With one last glance at Fjord up and down, shoulders and back straight, Caleb stepped back smartly.

It was only the sheer shock of it all, mercifully locking Fjord’s trap shut and washing over whatever else might have colored his expression with surprise, that kept him from embarrassing himself. 

When Caleb turned away from him entirely to walk back to his desk, Fjord staggered to re-collect himself, too warm under his skin, and tried to shake the hazy memory of a certain regretful dream from his mind.

Without even sparing him so much as a second glance though, Caleb opened a desk drawer, dropped the book inside, and lowered himself into his chair. Picking up his quill, he dipped it in the inkwell, and resumed right where he left off. The only sound in Fjord’s ears as he watched with wide-eyed confusion and, when his brain started working again, _want_ , he realized, was the rush of his own pulse and the annoyingly unaffected scratching of quill against parchment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Last night the Empire resisted a Kryn offensive at Sarzon,” Caleb intoned, his gaze distant, eyes fixed on the intricate metal latticework of the screen of the fireplace, without seeing much. “Initial estimates come in at over three hundred dead, casualty count still rising.”

Fjord froze in the doorway, one of the guards ‒ Caleb hadn’t seen which ‒ having just barely closed it behind him. “Well good afternoon to you, too,” he said, but his tone didn’t match the sarcasm his words might have conveyed.

“An emergency royal advisory council was convened,” Caleb said, just as monotone, while Fjord picked his way around the room to drop heavily into his habitual seat across the desk. 

“When? Today?” Fjord asked, thumbing at his lower lip, underneath which one of his filed tusks was growing in. It wasn’t so much a tell regarding any mood as an indicator that Fjord was thinking. 

“Late last night,” he said, “as reports were still coming in. There was uncertainty about whether the fort would hold.” Gods knew the messages and correspondence which were sent out en masse afterwards kept him up half the night, as if he were not already cursed to stare at the ceiling and turn or pace all night, his mind working relentlessly past daybreak. Perhaps it showed. Perhaps that was why Fjord looked at him in such a way, as if the outbreak of violence were a distant secondary concern. 

“Did you go?” he asked.

Caleb took a deep breath, pulling his eyes up from the cold fireplace and looking at Fjord directly for the first time. “No. Not for the first time, I have been… shut out, I think is a generous word for it.”

Fjord hummed in understanding, frowning down at his hands clasped between his knees. “Any important decisions come of it?”

Caleb could have laughed, if he had the energy for it. He stared blankly at Fjord, silence stretching long enough to bring Fjord’s golden eyes, full of unease, back up to meet his own. “The Empire marched fifteen hundred soldiers into Igrathad this morning, moving on three forts in immediate retaliation.”

“Gods,” Fjord muttered, sliding lower in his seat. “Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Caleb said with a bitter, tight smile he felt with a mirror twisting in his chest. “Perhaps a third of those men and women might return. If we are being optimistic.”

“Unfortunate then you’re not an optimist,” Fjord observed, a heavy frown steadily darkening his features.

“No.” Caleb called Frumpkin up from the foot of his desk to his lap, burying the fingers of one hand into his fur. “I am not.”

“Was there any warning of an attack?”

“Probably,” Caleb shrugged. “That is increasingly not my department.”

Fjord looked at his with stark confusion. “Whose then?”

And wasn’t that the question. A knot twisted in Caleb’s gut, not new, only twisting tighter and tighter until it threatened to seize up his chest, lungs and all, and leave him lightheaded with the rush of his pulse in his ears. 

“Caleb?” 

He blinked, finding Fjord leaning forward in his seat, faint concern written across his brow. “A colleague of mine. He was at the council meeting last night, I am told. I am…” Caleb sighed, wondering if he was lying to himself at this point. “I am waiting to hear back from him soon.”

Eodwulf was there. It made sense the King would want a voice for the Vollstrecker on hand, though it was concerning, and  _ hasty _ . So he finally surfaced. Nott received word from her little birds in the early hours of the morning. And he’d surfaced in order to speak in  _ favor  _ of the Igrathad incursion, by all accounts. Fuck the man, he was pushing Caleb to the limits of his patience.

At least,  _ at least _ , the King was still hesitant to unleash any Scourgers across the border just yet.

“What’s this colleague do?” Fjord asked, equal parts cautious and curious. 

“Make problems for me to clean up,” Caleb said bitterly, and entirely honestly. He stood from his seat suddenly, Frumpkin leaping to the floor with a yowl, and walked around the desk and past Fjord to the table, across which the map of the continent sprawled. Leaning over the edge, braced heavily on his palms, he studied the track of land and mountains over the border, tallying these new developments in the conflict and adjusting his mental markers of troop location, size, and mobility. 

He heard Fjord move quietly, rising from his own chair, making his way to stand just over Caleb’s shoulder.

“Hey,” came the low rumble, closer than he expected, the other man’s knee brushing his own as he moved to stand beside him, body heat radiating out from his side in the chilled room.

Caleb didn’t turn, didn’t look, didn’t answer, didn’t know what Fjord expected of him or wanted. Too many unknowns. 

“Caleb, are you alri‒”

“You know there was also a representative of the Cobalt Soul at the council meeting,” he said, words tumbling forth before he could stop them, breath rattling in his lungs before he could still it. “A man I have never worked with before. An Expositor. They too have a stake in this. The Cobalt Soul also supported militant retaliation. All about balance for them.”

Fjord was silent for a beat. “The Cobalt Soul, also, supported retaliation. Along with who? ”

At the stress Fjord placed on the word, at the jolt of frigid realization of what he’d just implied, Caleb’s fingernails dug into the wood beneath his hands. Fuck himself and his stupidity to every damned hell. He dropped his head, hair falling in his face a disheveled curtain, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Along with your colleague,” Fjord reasoned, sensing Caleb’s feelings on the matter well enough to sound apologetic about it. It didn’t matter that Caleb didn’t answer, couldn’t force himself to put his own ugly thoughts into words. His silence in response was telling.

Caleb’s mind was racing, heart in his throat. “Have you ever had doubts,” Caleb asked, voice rasping around the edges, “about your, your friends’ intentions, Jester, Mollymauk, Yasha, others… “

He felt Fjord’s hip bump gently against his own, a solid weight besides him that did not withdraw, and Caleb was silently glad for it. “Doubts?” he repeated, uncertain. “How do you mean?”

Caleb took a deep breath, focusing on the warmth radiating from Fjord’s side. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I‒ It does not matter.” He straightened up a margin, shifting his weight to his back foot and combing his fingers through his loose hair, pushing the mess of it back from his face. 

“Alright,” Fjord began again, and this time a warm weight descended on the back of Caleb’s shoulder, just over one shoulder blade. Caleb froze under the touch, incapable of doing anything for a moment but becoming hyper-aware of the slow, small circle he rubbed between his shoulders through the thin fabric of Caleb’s shirt. Fjord exhaled slowly. “Alright.”

It was… Caleb stopped himself from trying to categorize the gesture, or his thoughts on it. It didn’t matter. It was fine. It was kind. It was not unwelcome. Breathing deeply, Caleb willed and finally felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders. There was a pleased, low hum in Fjord’s chest in response, a deep vibration Caleb nearly felt in his own chest, but Fjord did not move away, as Caleb halfway expected.

And so Caleb swallowed, and trudged on. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord had become well acquainted with the wizard’s study. It was large, made to feel smaller by the sheer volume of furniture and materials gathered inside. Enough books to fill a library. Functional. But well worn and comfortable around the edges. 

A sort of den, Fjord mused to himself. And while plenty a bard had made the wizard currently sat hunched over the desk ‒ scribbling away at a letter, hair falling into his eyes and bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration ‒ out to be a dragon, Fjord had known dragons to hoard much shinier trinkets than old leather bound tomes.

Smiling to himself, Fjord turned away, hands on his hips, watching through the mottled stained glass window as a troupe of Crownsguard patrolled the street below. They cut a grey line through the two or so inches of snow that had already accumulated, more still falling by the hour.

Fjord signed, watching wind-buffeted snowflakes melt against the glass. “You know, I don’t care for the cold.” His words hung in the air, quiet and musing. “Not at all, really.” 

He didn’t expect a response, didn’t even know if Caleb heard him, but the scratching sound of quill against parchment stopped, and with a shift he couldn’t quite put words to, he felt Caleb’s eyes on him. Then, for a moment, silence. 

He heard Caleb mutter something unintelligible, too quiet to catch. Then there was a snap, like conjuring that weird cat of his.

“Come again?” Fjord turned away from the window to face the interior of the study, bathed in warm low light from the scattered sconces and candles throughout the room.

“I‒” Caleb blinked at Fjord mutely from where he sat hunched over the desk, frozen for a moment under his gaze. But he seemed to dismiss the thought, using the distraction to take a moment to sit upright, straightening out his spine with a pained wince, and shaking out the hand he held the quill with. His eyes were bright, hair catching the light of the flames that blinked and danced cheerily in the fireplace off to the side like polished copper. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Hm.” The pause stretched on for a moment longer, Caleb finally stilling in his chair, watching Fjord quietly as Fjord’s own eyes drifted to the far window, where the last rays of the low-hanging sun filtered in through red and orange and green tempered glass. He crossed his arms, watching the sun disappear. “Doesn’t get this cold past the Wuyun Gates. But the trek back down South would have been miserable this time of year.” He laughed to himself, quiet. “Think it’s a good part of the reason Molly decided he didn’t mind staying in Zadash a while longer.”

Caleb took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. Still, he didn’t seem to feel the need to add anything. And that was fine. Fjord’s line of thought was only meandering anyway; he wasn’t trying to get to a point. 

With another quiet huff of breath, Fjord turned back to the window behind him. He expected them to lapse back into silence after that. But, he didn’t hear the sound of the quill’s path across the parchment resume, and after a moment more, he heard Caleb speak, voice low and gentle.

“I did not give it much thought,” he said quietly. “I grew up well North of here. Even in Rexxentrum the winter is… less forgiving.”

Fjord glanced back over his shoulder, meeting Caleb’s eyes before, slowly, fingers reaching blindly for the quill he’d left in the ink tray, Caleb pulled his attention back down to the letter before him. 

Long and steady, Fjord exhaled, nodding. “Can’t imagine I’d like it much up there,” he said, wandering back toward the table. He stopped in front of the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and leap for a moment, a slow frown drawing across his face. “Caleb?”

The scratching of the quill caught for a moment. “Hm?”

He didn’t turn to look, but he felt Caleb’s eyes on him. Much like the interior of the study, he’d started to become familiar with that too; like the taste of ozone in the wind after a storm, the weight of something heavy unsaid, falling between the small smiles and low laughs and the quiet scratching of quill against paper.

He crouched down in front of the fireplace, holding out a hand, the welcome heat washing over him in waves. “There wasn’t a fire burning in here a few minutes ago, was there? Or am I just losin’ my mind...”

For a long stretch, his only answer was the quiet scribbling of the quill. Then, “No, Fjord,” Caleb’s voice came softly. “You are not losing your mind.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was late. It had been late for a while. 

They did not make a habit of these meetings lasting more than an hour and a half, two hours at most depending on how much new information there was to relay and digest, yet here they were, their heads bent over the maps together in the golden light softly spilling from the dancing orbs rotating around the ceiling, well past sundown, and in their fourth hour.

Caleb blinked blearily, taking a moment to refocus, to concentrate on maintaining the lights. For all his sleepless nights, he did not know for the life of him why this was the one that was getting to him. But there was a weight in his limbs, and a fuzziness in his head, and he was sure that the only thing keeping his eyes open was the certainty that they were  _ this close  _ to being done with this, and calling it a night.

Caleb had offered to call it sooner. It had been Fjord who insisted they finish.

Laid across the map of Wildemount were dozens and dozens of tokens, concentrated along the border between the Empire and Xhorhas and a number of larger Xhorhasian cities, color-coded to denote infantry from cavalry from war machine and so forth, and stacked in accordance with the size of their ranks. All of this was information provided from Rexxentrum. What Caleb was trying to accomplish, which Fjord had apparently developed a keen interest in seeing through, was to locate a number of key Dynasty figures, military officers and military-linked nobles as well as a handful of arcane specialist, who moved between them. 

Various military and scout reports and the information passed down Nott’s network of spies had to be double checked and cross-referenced, conflicting accounts ironed out, first and second and sometimes third most likely locations and identities noted for lack of any guarantee they were right. To their left on the floor was the pile of files they had already sorted through, and to the right of the maps on the table sat the significantly less intimidating stack they still had need of. Until all but the last few names had fallen into place.

Caleb had pulled the chairs away from the table an hour ago to more easily maneuver around the map and for fear of falling asleep if he sat down. As it was, the words had begun to swim before his eyes. But that didn’t mean, leaning there on his palms against the table, head bowed and loose strands of hair he’d long abandoned trying to contain falling in his face, that he couldn’t rest his eyes for just a moment. 

It was only the gentle touch at Caleb’s elbow that had his eyes blinking back open some time later. Inhaling sharply, he turned his head toward the touch, finding Fjord standing at his side, bathed in muted light from the rotating orbs above. 

“Hey.” Fjord’s voice was soft, like the pad of his thumb sweeping gently up and down the inside of his arm where he still had his hand on Caleb’s elbow. “You wanna pick this back up tomorrow?”

“No,” Caleb was quick to resist, shaking his head, because somehow giving in was no longer an option, not when they’d set their minds to finishing. “No, just… just thinking.”

Fjord hummed in understanding, a deep note reverberating from his chest. “Alright. We can though, if you want.” He went quiet for a moment, golden eyes watching Caleb with an attentiveness Caleb didn’t think he himself could summon if he tried. There was something Fjord nearly said, that much was obvious. But he simply nodded and turned back to the table, the gentle pressure at Caleb’s arm receding as his hand dropped back to his side.

Caleb missed it. He was too tired to fully delve into how, or read into why. He just did.

Breathing deeply, he forced himself to move. Caleb straightened his back, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the audible creak. Willing the lights brighter, he picked the document he’d left off with back up and re-read the last few lines, absently dragging the back of his knuckles over his recently shaven jaw, having let it go just long enough for the smoothness of it to feel odd.

“Do you know what a Shadowhand is?” Fjord’s question broke through the quiet haze of the crinkling paper and the occasional snap from the fireplace, nearly burnt to embers at this late point.

“Hm?” Caleb looked up from the document in hand, blinking at Fjord as he processed the question, eyes adjusting.

Fjord shifted closer, stepping up to his side and holding up a well creased and travel worn paper in front of Caleb, tapping a short passage near the bottom. “Says here, somethin’ called a Shadowhand?” Fjord rumbled, and with his side pressed to Caleb’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Caleb felt the low vibration of his words.

“Uh, yes, I am familiar,” Caleb said while he scanned over the document, hands migrating to take it from Fjord, who didn’t shift back again as Caleb half expected once he did. If anything, Fjord shifted closer, angled slightly behind one of Caleb’s shoulders to peer at the document and the map over it, and Caleb’s nerves were alight at every inch of it. “It is uh, it is not a ‘something’. It is someone. Something like my counterpart in the Dynasty,” Caleb mumbled, trying to focus on reading, trying to focus on maintaining the dancing lights, trying not to focus on the line of Fjord pressed more firmly against his back.

“Your counterpart,” Fjord repeated to himself, the sound of his quiet, steady breathing the loudest thing in Caleb’s ears, right along with his own pulse beginning to lazily climb higher.

Caleb nodded. “Ah, one of them, anyway.” Too easily, he swayed faintly where he stood, felt the weight of Fjord at his back, felt Fjord’s chin hook over his shoulder as he craned down to look closer at the document in Caleb’s hands. And because it was too easy, he forced himself to take a step toward the table, a step away from the solid warmth at his back, turning and moving to sit on the edge of the table, eyes locked down on the page in his hands for nowhere else to safely put them. 

It wasn’t a matter of coming to terms with why he reacted in such a way to Fjord’s presence sometimes. Why the nervous energy fizzled ineffectually in his burnt out nerves like the low hum of the dying fire behind the grate at their backs. The matter was, there were rules to this game they played, and more rules to the world beside; and in Caleb’s world, because he did desire to continue living in it, rules preside over base inclination of the sort that turned and pulled him like a force of gravity toward the man at his back.

It was hard enough finding he genuinely liked Fjord, despite all Nott and Beau’s and his own cautioning against it. Harder still not allowing it to mean anything. Especially when Fjord continued to make holding his ground on that point so very, very difficult.

“Dangerous, then…” A question, an observation, Caleb didn’t know. But he nodded slightly at Fjord’s words, watched in his periphery as he walked forward unhurriedly, shoulders lax, arms hanging loosely at his side. Dangerous. Yes.

The drifting light, the slow moving shadows, the haze of exhaustion, Fjord gliding to a stop just shy of Caleb’s knees; the world moved through golden molasses before Caleb’s eyes, and he himself was caught in the slow, sure drift of it. 

“Well,” Fjord began, exhaling deeply. He shifted impossibly closer still, leaning down, past and around Caleb with mere inches between to reach over the table and drag a small blue token across the map toward him. “According to that, seems like they’re in Ghor Dranas, whoever they are.”

“Likely,” Caleb agreed quietly, a little unsteadily, “ _ ja _ .” 

But Fjord hovered there, leaning over Caleb’s lap so far Caleb himself had to lean backward to keep the precious few inches of breath between their chests, his arm outstretched over the map, token in hand. He turned his face to glance at Caleb, eyes catching the low light as he looked from Caleb’s eyes down to his mouth and back again. “Remind me where that is?” Fjord breathed on an exhale, warm breath tickling over Caleb’s throat, Fjord’s other hand coming to rest lightly on Caleb’s knee.

Caleb didn’t say a word, didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. He twisted slightly to reach blindly back over the map, bringing his hand down to tap lightly on the soft vellum where the capitol city was inked. A move that brought him slowly, inevitably open toward where Fjord leaned over him, so close now his thighs brushed the edge of the table between Caleb’s knees. 

“Ah,” Fjord said, a low note, their breaths mingling on shallow exhales. “Thank you.”

With the haste of a man in possession of all the time in the world, Fjord set the small wooden token down on the map, sliding it across the soft fabric to come to rest where Caleb had indicated, the drag of it the only noise in the room.

Caleb said nothing, his heart in his throat, transfixed by Fjord’s heavy gaze as the man’s eyes slid off the map and back to Caleb’s face. For all Caleb knew his mind shouldn’t be, for all he tried to force his brain to move, to work, to think, to protest, it was still. Time suspended. There was only himself, and Fjord, and the breath caught in his chest, and these few inches of space, the only space that existed in all the world, right between them.

One of Fjord’s hands still resting lightly on the outside of Caleb’s knee, Caleb felt before he saw Fjord’s other hand withdraw from over the table and graze lightly up Caleb’s arm, cutting a slow arc through the space between them to tuck the loose lock of hair in Caleb’s eyes behind his ear with a gentleness Caleb wouldn’t have thought possible of calloused and capable hands.

“Fjord…” His attempt at a whispered warning died in his throat, a weight like a heavy blanket settling over him, breath failing to convey a protest he hadn’t even formed.

The hand settled just over his collar, thumb stroking lazily over the soft skin of Caleb’s neck, and he was sure now Fjord felt his heart pounding just as surely as he did beneath the surface. “Hm?”

For the first time in all he could remember, Caleb’s will failed him entirely. It was easier. This was easier. The breath slipped from his chest, taking with it the last battered lines of tension across his shoulders and brow. It was easier. Simpler. His eyes slipped nearly closed, watching Fjord sway forward through his lashes. Inevitable. 

The first press of Fjord’s mouth against his own was soft, but sure, the hand at his collar sliding up the column of Caleb’s neck to rest at his jaw, tilting his chin up, throat exposed. And Caleb let him, let his head fall back, his eyes fall closed, useless as the last thread of concentration in the back of his mind tugged and snapped, and the lights blinked out into darkness, but for the low glow of the coals.

The pressure at his jaw was soft though, undemanding, the kiss even polite by some standard. He could have pushed either away if he wanted. But he didn’t want. Not that.

Whatever permission Fjord was looking for, he found it when Caleb, on impulse ‒ because certainly nothing else was guiding him ‒ dragged his hand out of his lap and up the front of Fjord’s chest to slide his fingers through and tangle in the hair at the back of Fjord’s head. A low rumble resonated from Fjord’s chest, his lips moving against Caleb’s for the first time, and Caleb, gods help him, pulling Fjord closer, kissed back.

He heard himself as if from underwater gasp softly in surprise as Fjord’s hand that had been traveling up the outside of his thigh slid down to the underside of his knee, grip tightening and pulling to slide him to the edge of the table. The move made Caleb shift his knees wider around Fjord’s hips as he crowded closer, their chests coming flush together. Blunt fingernails scraping over his scalp, Caleb tugged the short hair in his hand sharply, managing to mumble out a breathless admonishment of “rude” before Fjord’s mouth was on his again, crushing, nearly bruising. The quick slide of Fjord’s tongue over the seam of his lips was all the warning Caleb had before he, aware of himself through a haze like a man possessed, opened his mouth beneath Fjord’s and deepened the kiss.

Slowly, almost leisurely, still with the sort of frustrating patience Caleb didn’t understand, Fjord licked his way into Caleb’s mouth, testing new waters. With teeth and tongue Caleb pushed forward between quick gasps for breath, wanting something more, nipping at Fjord’s bottom lip, only to be gentled with a quiet murmur of “easy” against his lips. 

Thumb stroking lazily over his cheek, Fjord pulled back far enough to breathe, but only just, rocking his forehead against Caleb’s. Still it pulled a low whine of complaint from Caleb’s throat that had Fjord pressing a grin against Caleb’s neck, tasting the skin and dragging his teeth over Caleb’s pulse with a teasing bite. 

Exhaling heavily in frustration, no amount of tugging ineffectively at Fjord’s hair or loose collar convinced him to work his way from the underside of Caleb’s jaw back to his mouth any faster, possibly made less convincing by the low aborted groan that forced its way past Caleb’s lips at Fjord’s retaliatory sharp tug in his own hair, pulling his head back and only exposing more of his throat to the man’s deliriously slow exploration.

There was a ringing in Caleb’s ears, forgotten in the intoxicating numbness of every nerve ending on fire beneath Fjord’s hands and lips and teeth and tongue. The sharp scrape of tusks against the soft underside of his throat was an unexpected thrill, tingling down Caleb’s spine and making him bite back a curse that had Fjord grinning against him. He was fighting through a fog of conflicting exhaustion and adrenaline and  _ want _ , but Fjord was warm and solid and sure beneath his hands and lips, the easiest thing in the world.

He had only just gotten Fjord’s bottom lip between his teeth, had only just coaxed Fjord closer, braced on both hands on either side of Caleb’s hips, was only just pushing past a pleased breathless groan back into Fjord’s mouth when the knocking at the study door jolted through his every nerve like a lightning strike.

The haze in his head evaporated with a cruel immediately, and Caleb jerked back, pulse spiking, pushing against Fjord’s chest and not even waiting for him to stumble back entirely before sliding away along the edge of the table and stumbling to his own feet, legs shaking. 

He didn’t turn to look back at Fjord. Couldn’t. Muscles locking up, head dizzy with oxygen or the lack thereof. There was only the sound of his own quiet panting and another hesitant knock at the door. Only‒

“Archmage?” A voice. A guard. One of them.  _ Scheisse _ . “The three others from the Menagerie Coast are downstairs, inquiring as to the whereabouts of‒”

“A moment,” Caleb barked at the door, catching his breath between the gasps that only stole the air from his lungs. The voice immediately fell silent.

“Caleb…” Fjord’s voice, low, breathless, too many things at once. Caleb didn’t have time for that now. Not now.

Straightening himself, his shirt, combing a hand through his hair, Caleb turned around to face Fjord and the closed door without really looking at either, composing a mask beneath which his insides churned. Why, idiot,  _ why _ . Foolish. _ Was hatte er getan, warum, warum hat er- _

“Goodnight, Fjord,” he choked, struggling to breathe evenly, vision spinning. He retreated back, stumbling around a chair awkwardly, toward the door to his attached bedroom and the solitude promised beyond it.

“Caleb, d–" Fjord stopped, inhaling shakily. "I’m sorry, don’t –”

“Goodnight.” He tried to meet Fjord’s gaze, tried to look apologetic. But it probably came off more than a little scared. Because he was. Scared. “Goodnight,” he whispered, barely audible, his back hitting the door. He slid down to the floor before his legs gave out, taking in the hard line of Fjord’s mouth, reddened and slick, wide eyes, his hair looking very much like Caleb had had his hand in it, shirt come untucked, collar crumpled and pulled out of place. 

Scandalous. Fucking scandalous. He was startled by the burst of strangled laughter that bubbled up from his own chest. He was sure he was going mad. 

Fjord just gaped at him, still panting lightly, opening and closing his mouth without finding any words until, pointing at where Caleb had practically collapsed, he hissed, “We’re gonna talk about this,” and turned toward the door.

Caleb reached out, a word of protest on his lips when, with a muttered word, a ripple washed over Fjord’s person, and though it took Caleb a moment of staring to comprehend the change, it left Fjord looking exactly as he had when he’d first walked through the door. Illusory magic of a familiar kind. Caleb’s heart pitched in his chest. 

Fjord glanced back to him once, expression conflicted though impossible to truly read, and then he was opening the door and closing it just as quickly behind him. 

And Caleb was alone. Heart racing, head spinning, chest still heaving in short shallow bursts for elusive air, but blessedly alone, except for the ringing in his skull.

Beauregard was going to kill him.

Nott was going to kill Fjord.

No one was going to learn of any of this, he resolved. It didn’t happen.

It could not happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to scream in the comments. <3


	13. a gentleman, a thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating and tag changes. Asterisks inside the fic denote "Zemnian" translations at the end notes. Special thanks to the horny bastards in the widofjord discord server. I can't be held accountable for my actions.
> 
> Speaking of, check out this fuckin dope [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5vZYK5YAJd4HhXT4WI3Bh9?si=CcvNM79JRB6H6I_scBvemw) made by rainbar on the server for this flaming trash heap of a longfic, songs in chronological order with the chapters. I'M DEAD.

 

“You know I’m not your courier.”

Nott sounded disapproving, yes, but not offended. Perhaps just disappointed. Caleb sighed, the pressure behind his eyes a constant painful thrumming. “Yes, Nott, I know. I am sorry,” he assured her, turning the sealed letter over and over in his hands, watching the light catch the red wax seal.

“You know you’ve got people for that.” He flicked his eyes up to meet hers, perched on Fjord’s chair with a sour twist to her mouth, and dropped them again.

 _No_ , the chair which merely sat across from the desk. But it shouldn’t matter, _gottverdammt_. He was not so much upset with himself over the connection to the piece of furniture as he was over the immediate impulse to overcorrect. 

Caleb swallowed, feeling the need to pace. But there was no room in the study to pace. Not when Beauregard stood feet planted and arms crossed in the middle of the only open floor space. He felt her watching his fidgeting, so he stopped that too, setting the letter neatly down on the desk and stilling his hands with a conscious effort, folding them together in his lap. 

“I know this also,” he acknowledged quietly. “Please, Nott, _bitte_ , this cannot go through normal routes. And I _know_ you can get in and out of Rexxentrum without anyone the wiser,” he flattered, glancing up to meet her gaze again with the smallest hopeful smile he could muster. Shameless, yes. But he needed this. He was so close, so close on so many fronts, and yet it felt like he was on the very edge of everything unravelling at his fingertips. 

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” she grumbled, wrinkling her nose up and crossing her arms moodily at the grateful smile that spread across Caleb’s face. “Just making sure you know, ‘cause you know, I’m not thrilled about it.”

“I thought you hated Zadash,” Beau piped up, raising a pierced eyebrow at Nott. “Now you don’t want to leave?”

“I don’t hate it,” Nott corrected. “The streets are just too wide and people are too nice. Every shopkeeper wants to ask how you’ve been today,” she griped. 

Caleb massaged his thumb in a slow circle against his temple, hoping it might do something to alleviate the dull pressure of the headache that had been building all afternoon. Caduceus called it stress. Caleb was more inclined to think he’d been cursed. He let his eyes close for a moment, the two women carrying on bickering. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

“What, you’ve never heard of manners?” Beau asked pointedly, and he could hear the smirk at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh that’s rich coming from you, you fucking animal,” Nott scoffed.

“Okay, fuck you,” Beau said without much energy behind the words. She overplayed the nonchalance; he knew she was self-conscious about her endeavours to tame herself. “I’m, like, the damn picture of charm and hospitality and all that shit.”

Called inhaled deeply, opening his eyes. He looked to Nott, clearing his throat. “Anyway, _danke_ , Nott,” he said, and he meant it. He pushed the envelope across the desk, Nott’s eyes following it with caution. “Just a little longer. All this is almost over, _ja_?”

She hummed, not quite an affirmative, chewing on her lip. Nott narrowed her eyes at the letter, then Caleb. “What’s the ‘oh shit’ level on this one exactly?”

He considered it, considered the weight of the words sealed inside. “Burn it before you lose it.”

Grinning sharply, Nott darted forward and snatched the letter off the desk, stowing it away in one of her many hidden pockets. “Stand back, Beau,” she hollered, jumping to the ground, her strange tinkered crossbow suddenly whipped from behind her cloak and hefted aloft. “I’ve got a license _to kill_.” Her eagerness was for show, but it made him smile anyway.

“No, that is not what I said,” Caleb scolded, trying to keep a straight face. It wasn’t so effective.

“No, but it’s what I heard,” Nott said, wagging a finger at him.

Beau ducked instinctively as a loaded crossbow was waved exaggeratedly in her direction. “Fuck, Nott, watch where you’re pointing that thing.”

“Please,” Nott scoffed. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead Beau.”

“Bet.”

“I know where you sleep.”

“Enough, please,” Caleb asked of them, wincing at the volume, interrupting before it rose any higher, already wincing. He turned to face Nott. “Please just get that to De’leth quietly, and come back. I do not expect trouble for you, but if you find it, this is not something to go down with the ship over,” he said sternly. All jesting aside now, he made sure she knew he was serious. He needed her more than he needed the contents of that letter confidential.

Nott squared her posture, saluting with her crossbow. “You got it,” she assured through a bloodthirsty grin, teeth bared. Beau snorted, grinning at the foolish behavior. Caleb’s own grin re-emerged a little sad, amused by the display, but keenly aware of the lengths Nott went to in order to make him smile.

“Thank you,” he called after her, already on her way toward the door. “I owe you for this.”

“Yeah,” Nott shrugged, reaching up to unlatch the door, “but who’s really keeping track at this point.”

As Nott left, door closing behind her, Caleb finally turned to Beau. “And you,” he started, “you have something for me, yes?” Beau nodded, pulling a rolled up and tied off stack of papers from where she’d had it tucked into her belt. She held it up mutely, smirking as he leaned forward, reaching out for it eagerly. “Yes, that, give it here.”

“Whatever,” she shrugged, tossing it to him. Caleb caught it inelegantly, fumbling to pull off the leather ties. “I already had a look. It’s not that interesting.”

Caleb disregarded her comment about snooping. “Firsthand observations of Kryn battlefield magic and not that interesting?” he challenged. “Doubtful.”

“Nerd.”

“You are the one who read it first,” was all he said before he focused on the notes he’d managed to unfurl. And to his merit, he wasn’t merely avoiding her gaze; he’d seen better penmanship. Beau muttered something unintelligible. He might have tried harder to determine what if not for the arcane alarm in his ears, a quiet note he attributed to Nott’s departure. At least she was using the door this time, and not a window.

Beau cleared her throat, accompanied by the sound of her boot scuffing at the carpet. “So. Uh, Dairon.”

Caleb stopped reading, his eyes freezing on the last phrase they’d scanned over. “Yes?”

He wasn’t surprised that she had something to say, only surprised that it took her so long to get to it; the way she’d been standing there awkward and morose enough to draw attention away from the manner in which Caleb himself was all out of sorts was a clear giveaway.

Beau inhaled, beginning to form a word, but sighed. Silence for a second, and then another. “So I tried to talk to her again.”

Caleb nodded, running his tongue over his teeth. “And?”

“Not a super chatty person, but I‒” She was interrupted by sudden knocking at the door. Caleb’s eyes flew to the closed door, heart suddenly thudding against his sternum, the memory of the night before running him down on horseback. Beau was already there, hand against the back of it like she wasn’t yet sure whether to open it or brace it closed. She looked back at him. “Expecting someone?”

“Not for another two hours, no,” he said, frowning. If Fjord intended to show up at all; he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. It was odd, yes, but assassins did not tend to knock, now did they. The return of reason smoothed over the prickle of magic over his skin.

“No alarm?”

“I thought it was Nott leaving.”

She threw open the door.

“Beau ‒” he hissed, reaching out automatically as if to stop her despite sitting on the opposite end of the room. No use. He dropped his head again, elbows on the desk, his vision of the door and who stood beyond it obstructed by the lattice of his fingers trying without success to work the headache out from behind his eyes.

“Oh.” Her tone was flat, surprised but trying not to be. Though not in any way alarmed. “Hey.”

“Afternoon,” a familiar low drawl greeted.

Caleb’s breath stuttered. He shut his eyes hard, digging deeper with the tips of his fingers. He did not need this right now. He really did not need this.

“You’re… early,” Beau observed. Digging for information.

“So I am.” Fjord’s voice, equally pleasant, and not immediately giving it.

“So those lazy assholes just sent you up, huh?”

Fjord chuckled, low and pleasant. “Well I _am_ a regular fixture at this point.”

“Fair.” A pause.

“If you’re, or he’s busy,” Fjord began, the implied end of that sentence dropping off slightly, likely accompanied by some sort of gesture he couldn’t see. Beau, however, didn’t immediately respond. “I could ‒” 

“No, no,” Beau reassured, too loudly, trying too hard to seem unperturbed, uninterested. “Come on in.”

The last thing Caleb wanted was for both Beauregard and Fjord to try and parse out what exactly his pained expression meant. He kept his head down, hunched over the desk on his elbows, his hands blinders as he still worked his thumbs in hard circles over his temples. As such, blessedly, he saw little more than Beauregard and Fjord’s boots as they approached his desk. 

“Fjord,” he intoned evenly, more steady than he felt. “To what do we own the pleasure?”

“Archmage,” he greeted cooly. Caleb could have flinched. “There’s a… a development, in the situation we’ve been monitoring.”

Beauregard huffed at the purposefully vague explanation. “Fine. I’ll leave.”

“No, no,” Caleb held up a hand, scrubbing at his eyes with the other. “We are not done, with this,” he insisted, both because if he didn’t get it out of Beauregard now she might drop it entirely, and because he was not prepared to be left in a room alone with Fjord.

“I’ll step out,” Fjord offered. “Sorry for inter‒”

“No, just ‒” Caleb grimaced, at the ache in his skull, at the tension in the room as Beau and Fjord appraised each other cautiously, competitively, at how he felt their eyes on him, at his own awkward inability to handle the two of them individually right now, much less together. The hand that hovered in the air as if to stop them, to stop something, give him time to think, closed into a tight fist, dropping back to the desk. 

He took a breath, righting himself. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. Childish. He knew what he had to do, and only needed to do it. Reaching for a cooler headspace, he began throwing up barriers between the physical pain and the internal anxiety and the emotional exhaustion. Barriers that let him _think_. That gave him distance. Caleb straightened in his chair, lifting his gaze to look Beauregard and Fjord in the eye for the first time since either entered the study.

Fjord’s arms were crossed, head to the side just so as he looked down at Caleb, brow furrowed with either confusion or concern or something between. Beauregard kept side-eyeing Fjord, glancing to Caleb for answers with increasing distrust in her dark eyes.

“Fjord, please wait a moment,” he asked flatly, adding the “please” to mitigate how it came out like an order. “Beauregard, I believe you were about to describe a certain conversation.” 

Both of her eyebrows went up, looking pointedly at Caleb, and glancing sideways to Fjord and back mutely. Caleb returned the look flatly, ignoring her obvious attempt to convey her distrust in Fjord, his jaw tight. 

“Now?”

He blinked. “Yes.” 

Apparently that was not the response she wanted. “You know what,” Beauregard began, a bitter edge to her tone. “I think it can wait. I should probably go help Nott prepare for her trip. Seems you’ve got more important business right now.”

“Beauregard,” he warned, didn’t want to plead. 

But she ignored him, turning on her heel and walking toward the door. 

“Please.”

The door closed sharply behind her. 

For a moment Caleb stared after her, eyes dry and expression blank. A cold tendril of ice crawled up his spine, numbing the base of his skull, his mind, everything. That… he didn’t expect that. And he knew he should feel something more than just… absent. And yet...

Fjord stood awkwardly in his periphery, shifting on his feet uneasily. Slowly, though, he took a step forward, hands clenching over the back of his chair. “Caleb?” His voice was low, uncertain, far too gentle, far gentler than his name ever deserved to be said.

Caleb’s vision blurred. And what he felt next, in the absence of anything, felt a bit like collapsing. He choked on an inhale, whatever modicum of control he’d summoned up cracking and shattering, and he crumpled in on himself. His hands gripping the edge of the desk hard to keep from shaking, knuckles white, he ducked his head, hair falling like a curtain before his face but he closed his eyes anyway. Unable to bear the weight of Fjord’s _looking_. Not like that.

“Oh fuck,” Fjord breathed, barely audible, regretful. 

Caleb heard footsteps, felt the air move as Fjord walked around the length of the desk, felt the warmth at his side as he took a knee next to his chair. Caleb’s breath, already coming in sharp shallow bursts, faltered at the pressure of Fjord’s hand sweeping up and down the curve of his back, a familiar sort of contact Fjord turned to, a comfort Caleb was not prepared to allow himself right then. He froze, every fiber of his being tensing under the touch, as gentle as the rest. 

A sickening ache bloomed in Caleb’s chest at how undeserved it felt, undeserved and a terrible idea. An idea he’d made himself so sure he would reject as he paced himself into exhaustion during the early hours of the morning. _Pathetic_ , a voice hissed in the back of his mind. And he couldn’t help but agree with it.

“Alright. Not done panicking I see,” Fjord murmured. He had the nerve to huff under his breath, as if that were funny, or amusing, or anything but horrifying. But Caleb didn’t trust himself to open his eyes, much less to speak, and so Fjord talked on, filling the quiet with the low hum of his voice. “That’s fine. Just breathe. Slow, slow down. We’re just breathing. All the time in the world… ” 

Gradually, through the pulsing in Caleb’s head, in his ears, Fjord’s voice gained clarity, white noise fading out and replaced by the low intonation of his words. Unintentionally, frustratingly, Caleb found himself matching his slow, deep breaths, each inhale coming more naturally, each exhale steadier than the last.

Fjord sighed long and low, hand rubbing back up Caleb’s spine to knead slightly at the back of his neck, thumb sweeping gently over his floundering pulse. “I’m not entirely sure what that thing with Beauregard was about,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for whatever role I had in it. I probably should've just waited ‒ not like it’s _that_ urgent. Hell, I told myself I would wait, but then I got walking and my legs just took me here,” he said. Caleb could hear the slight self-deprecating grin in the lilt of his voice.

He swallowed, collecting himself with another deep breath before he released the edge of the desk, flexing his fingers out, and relaxing his hands. He pressed them against the cool lacquered wood of the desktop, as sure and steady as the light pressure of Fjord’s hand at his back. Blinking away the white spots in his vision, Caleb just stared down at the grain of the wood between his forearms.

Slowly, projecting his movements, Fjord extended a hand and swept the hair from Caleb’s face, loose and long enough to begin curling at the ends. The back of Fjord’s knuckles dragged over his cheek, coming to tap beneath his chin and lightly guide his face up and to look at Fjord before he pulled his hand away.

“You ‒” Caleb stopped, swallowing dryly, voice too much a rasping whisper. “I cannot _do_ this, Fjord.” 

There was a beat of silence. Without a word, the gentle hand at the back of his neck slowly slid away. Caleb failed to suppress a shiver.

“Well, right now all you’re doing is calming down a bit,” he said, and Caleb wished there was a trace of malice, of sarcasm, of anything to his words other than an easy kindness. “And I know you can do that.”

Caleb shook his head, staring ahead, unable to look at him. “I am fine. And you know what I am referring to.”

Fjord hummed considerately, getting to his feet with a heavy exhale. “That’s interesting,” he said easily, moving to sit at the edge of the desk, head cocked to the side as he looked at Caleb. “I didn’t think you were in the habit of letting other people dictate what you could and couldn’t do.”

Caleb scowled, teeth grinding together, but not finding the right words to cobble together in a response.

Fjord sighed. “You know, I didn’t like just leavin’ like that,” Fjord admitted, tone softer, a crease between his eyebrows. “I like to consider myself more of a gentleman.” A grin hitched the corner of his mouth.

Caleb scrubbed his hands over his face, working his jaw. “It is fine. I told you to go. I was ‒ it was late, and we were tired, and not thinking ‒”

Fjord laughed, the sound sharp and splintered and humorless. “Don’t. Don’t do that. That’s gotta sound fake, even to your own ears.” Fjord crossed his arms, looking at Caleb with disapproval. Caleb couldn’t help but glance back, cowed slightly. “Now I started it, and for that I apologize, but don’t pretend it was a fucking accident,” he said, voice hard and flat, his eyes frustrated. “I’d like to think I’m a little better than that.” But sarcasm hardly softened the blow.

Caleb swallowed, head pounding, and looked away. He didn’t have words for that. He hadn’t even managed to convince himself of that lie. He was certain he would not convince Fjord. No words for any of it. There was guilt, yes. Frustration with himself. He should have shoved Fjord away the moment he felt where that was going, yet he didn’t, weak and foolish as it was. Yet he could hardly put that to words. 

Fjord sighed, heavy and apologetic as he shifted closer. “Look here, darlin’ ‒” he reached out, fingers brushing Caleb’s jaw as if to tilt his face up again, but Caleb flinched away, and he dropped it. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said gently. “I get that was…” He shook his head, expression pulling tight, pained almost. “Gods, Caleb,” he laughed, dry and bitter, “tell me to stop.” It was almost pleading. Almost. “Tell me to shut the hell up, and I will. But let’s at least be straightforward about it.”

There was a long silence, hanging heavy in the air, almost suffocating.

“Do not look at me like that,” Caleb muttered, forced himself to say something, his hands balled into tight fists to keep them from shaking or fidgeting.

“Like what?”

 _Like you care._ But even considering that Fjord might broke every rule. “Like this is a game,” Caleb intoned, mouth dry. “Like my choices are arbitrary. That I am merely, _reacting_.”

Fjord whistled, faux impressed. “Woah, that’s a lot to convey in just a look. I don’t give myself enough credit.”

Caleb scowled. “Am I wrong?”

Fjord shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve got to admit,” he chuckled, too unconcerned, too annoyingly sure, “certainly felt like a game, these past couple weeks.”

“It is not a fucking game,” Caleb snapped, a swell of anger and frustration carrying him to his feet, chair shrieking backward across the floor as he rose to look Fjord in the eye. “It is my _life_ , Fjord. And it is _your life._ And it is dangerous for both,” he hissed. “There are stakes, and I do not dictate what they are. And all of this ‒” he motioned outward, hand sweeping across the room, at the two of them, at the study, at the city itself ‒ “it is temporary. It was only ever _meant_ to be temporary.”

Fjord huffed, shaking his head as an amused smile curled at the corner of his mouth, godsdamned infuriating. It made Caleb’s heart race, his teeth grinding. “You trying to tell me my choices, your choices, have consequences? That the world’s dangerous? Fuck, Caleb, I could’ve told you that.”

“Do not make light,” Caleb growled. “Do not.”

“I suppose it’s awful sweet actually, not wanting to what, drag me into this any more than I already am?” Fjord surmised, raising an eyebrow, still grinning in a way that made Caleb’s blood boil. It didn’t help that Caleb had considered exactly that. The risk for both of them far outweighed the benefits. All of this, it was just extra. Better without. A vulnerability. He of all people would know. 

“Fjord,” Caleb tried, a word of warning, but not nearly enough to convey all that could have been said. That needed to be said.

“Or maybe just selfish. A little narrow minded.” Caleb glared daggers, the muscle in his jaw jumping, heart racing. “Think I haven’t fought to survive just as long and hard as you? Think I don’t have my own enemies?” Fjord asked, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “For shame.”

“There are rules, Fjord,” Caleb grit out slowly, taking a measured breath that did nothing to cool the frustration burning through his veins. “This cannot ‒”

“Nah, maybe ‘selfish’ isn’t the right word,” Fjord mused, pushing off the desk, stepping up toe to toe with Caleb. He lifted his hand, pad of his thumb dragging over Caleb’s lower lip, only for Caleb to grab his wrist tightly, lips thinned, teeth bared in a sneer. “See, you still haven’t told me to fuck off,” he rumbled. “So maybe the word’s _cowardly_.”

Face twisted in damn near a snarl, Caleb surged forward, seizing Fjord by the collar of his shirt with both hands, jerking him sharply forward. But Fjord didn’t fight it, didn’t pull away, only balanced himself with his hands on Caleb’s waist like they belonged there. “ _Why_ ,” Caleb demanded, low and raw and harsh in Fjord’s ear, because the part inside him that was wound and wound tight enough to snap was either going to fracture in an outburst of anger or the sob he’d strangled off in his chest. The low flames of the wall sconces flickered, grew, pulsed in time with the molten thread through his core. “ _Why_ are you doing this?”

Fjord’s eyes shone bright, a sharp grin splitting his face as the hands at Caleb’s waist migrated to the small of his back, wrapping his arms around his middle and pulling him closer. A startled sound slipping from Caleb’s chest as, too late, he realized his initial mistake. Fjord pressed his forehead to Caleb’s, tried to, as Caleb turned away sharply, sneering in contempt he so desperately wanted to feel. But there wasn’t far to go. His breath was coming in short sharp bursts again, still seething under the surface, with Fjord, with _everything_. Funneling his wordless anguish into a burning glare. Wanting either to physically strike out or kiss that infuriating smirk from his face. Doing neither, both hands trapped between their chests no matter how hard he shoved, fuming and swearing low and dangerous in his mother tongue. 

All of the fabricated protests he’d come up with died in the back of his mind, not making it anywhere near is lips, too cheap to express the raw frustration smouldering like hot coals in his chest. Unlike the night prior, through the golden haze of sleep and dark and gentle touches that ached, everything ‒ the hard line of Fjord’s body, the dark pools in his eyes, the heat of his skin, the warm breath ghosting against his throat, the thrum of his heart against Caleb’s hands ‒ had a fierce clarity. And Caleb _wanted_ , and hated that he did, fingers twisting viciously into the front of Fjord’s shirt. It did not matter that with a word he could free himself. The magic hummed under his skin, across his tongue ‒ he could do it. But he wanted, needed, the satisfaction of tearing something apart with his hands. As if that would release some of the blistering pressure building beneath his skin.

“‘Cause at the end of the day,” Fjord breathed, a hand roving up Caleb’s back to tangle in his hair. Tightening, _yanking_ his head back. Teeth scraping against Caleb’s exposed throat, grinning wickedly when that pulled a surprised open-mouthed cry from Caleb before he had the chance to smother it. And gods, how he fucking trembled, breathing quick and hot and damp, mingling with Fjord’s. “I’m only half the gentleman I like to think I am.” 

And his grip tightened, fingers twisting in his hair, and Caleb _whined_ , head back, throat and teeth bared, writhing against the solid plane of Fjord’s chest, too much, _too much_ , his arms trapped between them useless, hands scrabbling desperately against Fjord’s chest, clawing, clenching, the sound of stitches tearing. Panting, throat clicking, Caleb said nothing, _couldn’t_ , only watched Fjord through narrowed contemptuous eyes.

He couldn’t. He _can’t_ . But he _wanted_. And those two forces warred over whatever frayed threads of willpower remained.

“But I am a pirate,” Fjord whispered, low and breathless. And he looked Caleb in the eye, golden irises a thin line around blown pupils, before he pressed a near bruising kiss to Caleb’s parted lips. His traitorous, erratic heart stuttered in his chest, knees threatening to buckle, but Fjord’s arm wrapped tighter around his waist. 

Caleb’s mind went blank with the crashing, clashing whitenoise that vibrated and in every fiber, instinct sweeping over every rational thought that vied for control until there was only himself and there was _Fjord_ and he was _kissing him._ _Again_.

With a tempting slide of his tongue over Caleb’s bottom lip, Fjord pulled back just as quickly. Leaving Caleb reeling. Reaching desperately for control again. Finding only a rapidly unraveling thread. “And a thief,” Fjord murmured, eyes still on Caleb’s mouth, ducking back down for a softer kiss, lingering this time, savoring the small desperate noise that escaped Caleb’s chest. 

Fjord grinned against his mouth, nipping Caleb’s lip and pulling back. “And when I fancy somethin’,” he rumbled, ducking his head, teeth scraping over his throat in a way that had Caleb’s eyes fluttering closed with a gasp, “I’m pretty good at gettin’ it.”

Fjord’s mouth crashed into his again, one hand blazing a path up his side, clutching insistently at his jaw. And frayed, hacked at from inside and out, the thread in the back of Caleb’s mind snapped. He kissed back, surged forward, felt Fjord hum deep and pleased resonating in his chest and then he was walking Caleb backwards, some sort of one-sided dance. A note of surprise sounded in the back of Caleb’s throat, and Fjord just chuckled, the heavy weight of his arm around his hips keeping him from stumbling. Fjord turned them, and Caleb found his back pressed none too gently against a wall, breath rattling with a gasp. Fjord took advantage, leaning in, his tongue fucking into Caleb’s mouth in some sort of filthy mimicry of what Caleb wanted, needed, what every nerve, raw and exposed, was buzzing for.

Chest heaving, stealing breaths when he could, Caleb held on, ceded easily under the plundering kiss. It was everything the night before had not been. Impatient, biting, harsh. Fjord’s hands roving down his sides to ruck up the tail end of his shirt, sliding beneath to find bare skin at the cut of his hips, nails biting into his flesh. And Caleb’s blood was burning with it.

Suddenly, Fjord’s mouth tore away, open and panting, his eyes closed, forehead rolling against Caleb’s. “Tell me,” he breathed, sucking in a greedy lungful of air. “Need to hear you say it, sweetheart. Need to, _mmf‒_ ” 

Caleb surged forward, slotting their mouths together, teeth finding Fjord’s bottom lip, and bit _hard_. Cursing, Fjord’s hand closed low around Caleb’s neck, pressing more with his palm at the top of Caleb’s sternum than the fingers around the fluttering pulse in his throat to pin him in place, but still Caleb’s head spun. His eyes darted down to watch Fjord’s tongue probe gently at his bitten lip, red, damp and swollen. A low dangerous rumble, almost a growl, escaped Fjord’s chest as he crowded in close, mouth hovering over Caleb’s.

“Behave yourself,” he warned, tone low and grating like sandpaper. Caleb’s eyes fluttered nearly closed, hips canting forward, half mouthing a quiet curse under his breath as he struggled to pull enough air into his chest. He swallowed dryly, Fjord’s eyes following the bob of his throat with a dangerous smirk as Caleb stilled, quieted, panting. “Look at me, Caleb,” he said, tone unchanged, and Caleb swallowed the whine building in his throat. But he did. Look. And the hand pinning him to the wall eased, sliding slowly back down the front of Caleb’s shirt to rest at his hip, seeking out bare skin, thumb rubbing distracting little circles.

Fjord huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Petulant.” But slowly, gently, he smoothed a hand through Caleb’s hair, brushing it back from his face, out of his eyes. “Tell me what you want, darling. I won’t take silence for an answer.” 

His head spun. Couldn’t quite pull enough air into his lungs. Every single possible concern, every rational thought, every reason he’d accrued that explained why this was a terrible idea, _and there were many_ , had abandoned him, hanging just out of reach. Something far more base in its needs clawed, tore its way to the front to replace them. He pulled his lip between his teeth, biting sharply, waiting for the pain of it to clear his head, watching Fjord’s eyes dart after it.

“Caleb,” he rumbled, low, patient, _soft_ , too soft.

But clarity didn’t come. Didn’t help. Couldn’t remind him exactly what he was warring against, burning up on the inside. Pulling him apart, thread by thread. There was only want. And there was Fjord, making it so _gottverdammt_ easy. And there was the blistering need that had been trained, hammered into his very instinct for survival, the need to pull himself back together, to control what he wanted, what he needed, how he got it.

“Cay,” Fjord breathed, the full length of his body radiating heat against him.

And he _did_ want. And Fjord offered. So he took.

With that decision, something snapped back into place in the back of Caleb’s mind, cutting through the haze. Providing _clarity_ . A path forward. “You have made your, interests ‒” Caleb breathed, dark and molten in the intimate space between them ‒ “clear.” He rested his hand flat against Fjord’s chest, felt the rapid pace of his heart beneath it, a warm curl of pleasure unfurling low in Caleb’s gut. Knowing _he’d done that_. Caleb’s fingers twisted into Fjord’s shirt and he pushed forward, hooking an ankle behind Fjord’s knee and yanking him off balance enough that Caleb could spin them both, pressing Fjord’s shoulder blades against the wall.

Fjord gasped, groaned quietly at Caleb’s hands gliding down his chest, fingers hooking in his belt, tugging sharply but not _quite_ sharp enough to close that tantalizing bit of distance between them. Fjord stilled, hands loose at his side, watching Caleb with half hooded eyes. The willingness to surrender up control so easily, Caleb did not understand. But it was _dizzying_. Caleb paused a moment to appreciate his work, every line of Fjord disheveled and panting and raw around the edges.

Caleb crowded closer, closer until his cheek was pressed to Fjord’s, his mouth to his ear, warm breath sending a visible shiver down Fjord’s spine. “Counter offer.”

Caleb slipped his knee between Fjord’s thighs, grinding his hips forward in a filthy slide that had Fjord’s eyes flying open, a guttural curse dying on his lips. His head fell back with a thud against the wall, brow tight and mouth open. Fjord’s hands went to Caleb’s narrow hips, dragging him closer, harder, rolling forward to grind against his thigh, the half hard length of him through his trousers demanding Caleb’s attention.

Caleb grinned, all canines, against Fjord’s throat, rocking his thigh forward once. Twice. He let Fjord roll his hips into him again with a bitten back groan before Caleb withdrew, both hands digging into Fjord’s waist and pressing him hard against the wall to still his attempts to cant forward, to find friction. 

Humming, pleased, he nibbling at Fjord’s pulse. “What do _you_ want, hm?” he asked in a quiet exhale against heated skin. Pulling away from the juncture of Fjord’s shoulder and neck, teeth scraping as he did, he pulled a quiet breath from Fjord’s throat in response. Caleb lifted a hand to sift through Fjord’s hair, damp with sweat at the back of his neck, and twisted his fingers into it, angling Fjord’s head to look at him

Panting from self-restraint, Fjord’s eyes tracked down to his mouth, slicked and parted, watched the tension, almost pained, pull at Fjord’s brow as Caleb licked his lips. Grinned, sharp and self-satisfied. Predatory. More teeth than anything. 

A beat of silence. Of quiet panting. 

“Do you want to fuck me, Fjord?” he whispered, almost accusatory. Cruel, perhaps. Blunt and low and impossibly pleased with himself. Fjord’s hips stuttered involuntarily against his thigh with a groan.

Caleb tisked, fingers twisted in Fjord’s hair preventing him from burying his face in Caleb’s neck, preventing him from hiding the mottled flush that crawled high across his cheeks and his neck. Relenting, Fjord’s head fell back against the wall once more, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. 

There was a certain delight Caleb took in being right. 

Leaning closer, teeth grazing against the underside of Fjord’s jaw and tongue darting out to taste, Caleb tightened his hand a fraction in Fjord’s hair as he shifted forward, rolling his hips forward with a short, shallow thrust.

“I think you do,” Caleb breathed, the grin on his lips vicious, nipping at Fjord’s earlobe. 

Fjord choked back a sound, needy and breathless. His hands trailed over Caleb’s sides, dragging down to cup his ass, grinding Caleb’s hips forward in a dirty, quick roll. Caleb bit back a low moan, muffled in Fjord’s shoulder, heat spiraling tight in his gut. His cock strained painfully against his trousers, jerking at the outline of Fjord fully hard against his hip. 

Fjord panted for air, swallowing hard. “An’ if I said yes?” he asked, voice strained, and odd way to it Caleb didn’t have the mind to explore. Fjord watched Caleb from heavily lidded eyes. Caleb hissed at the next grind of his hips, Fjord’s hands on his ass sliding down to the backs of his thighs, changing the angle, fingers biting into soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises as he rutted against him as if to punctuate the question. 

Caleb huffed, breathless and impatient, sucking hard at the sure throbbing of Fjord’s pulse just over his collar bone. His fingers trailed a hasty path down the front of Fjord’s chest, pulling the end of his shirt untucked. Caleb slid one hand beneath it up the plane of Fjord’s abdomen, taut and scarred and radiating heat, muscles jumping under the drag of his fingertips. His other fumbled and tore at Fjord’s belt buckle, the slither of leather over metal lost to the sound of panting, biting kisses and swallowed groans as Fjord continued to drag their hips and painfully clothed erections together in a shameless, messy bid for friction.

Grinning victoriously against Fjord’s mouth, finally tearing the buckle open, Caleb planted his hands against Fjord’s chest and shoved away, hard, and Fjord released him. Caleb stumbled back a step. Fjord groaned after him in complaint, looking straight off the cover of a trashy bodice-ripper. Shirt rucked up and stretched at his collar, the flushed skin there heaving for breath and spotted dark with the evidence of Caleb’s teeth and lips and tongue. His spine was arched beautifully, shoulders against the wall, belt hanging open and trousers low on his hips, strained by the needy arch of Fjord’s dick heavy and begging for attention against his thigh.

Caleb hummed sympathetically. He stepped forward again, pressing a light kiss to Fjord’s chin, his mouth, a lewd, used slash. Slowly, punishingly, his fingers traced light patterns over Fjord’s stomach. Fjord closed his eyes as Caleb’s hands dipped lower, dragging teasing slow circles over the bare skin of his sides, his hips, dancing along the top of his trousers. The back of Fjord’s head hit the wall as Caleb leaned in to lave kisses over his jaw, humming against the hollow of his throat.

“ _Caleb_ ,” he breathed, hips stuttering forward uselessly against air, fingers winding into Caleb’s hair, his name on his lips a quiet plea for more. 

Caleb trailed his fingers down Fjord’s thigh, ghosting lightly over the hard length of his cock without warning, ripping a breathless whine from Fjord’s chest. Fjord’s hips jerked against his hand, chasing after relief. Caleb chuckled, pressing a featherlight kiss against Fjord’s bobbing throat and softly cupping the prominent bulge in his trousers, rubbing his thumb teasingly over the head of his cock through the fabric.

“Caleb,” Fjord gasped, hips jerking in small circles, shaking his head. He blinked his eyes open. “C’mon now, don’t ‒” he jerked, a broken moan forcing its way past his lips as Caleb squeezed, quick and mean before it was only light drags of his fingertips again. He hissed, “ _Fuck_ ,” bucking into Caleb’s hand. 

“May I?” Caleb whispered, tongue flashing over his teeth, eyes flicking up to meet Fjord’s. Fjord watched, stricken, panting and wordless, shuddering as Caleb sank lower, trailing wet kissed down his throat, his collar, passing over his shirt to lick over the smooth skin at the cut of his hip. Caleb’s knees hit the wood floor, and Fjord trembled beneath his gaze, his mouth, his fingertips.

Tilting his head, Caleb pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the outline of Fjord’s cock through his trousers, and Fjord moaned, broken and pleading. “ _Caleb_ , yes, _fuck_ Caleb, please,” he whispered, the words tumbling thick and disjointed off his tongue, rolling his head back agaisnt the wall, swallowing hard.

Nuzzling closer, Caleb’s fingers tore at the laces of his trousers, laving his tongue over the hard heat of Fjord’s pulsing dick through the fabric. Caleb groaned low and pleased at the faint ache of his jaw, a barely there yet familiar promise of more. He pulled the front of Fjord’s trousers open, hanging loose and low on his hips. Was more gentle with his underclothes. Sliding his palm flat down Fjord’s lower belly, muscles tensing and jumping, down over the coarse dark hair trailing below his navel, Caleb wrapped his fingers loose around the base of Fjord’s cock, pumping once slow and easy as his thick length sprang free from the constraints of his clothing.

“ _Wie hübsch du bist_ ,”* Caleb breathed, looking up at Fjord through his lashes, and Fjord groaned, hips twitching. So pretty. Perfect like this. Caleb’s fingers lightly trailed up the thick vein on the underside of his dick, and wetting his lips, dragged them teasingly up the side of his shaft. Tongue darting out to taste, salt and musk settled rich and heavy over his senses. Fjord inhaled sharply, bottom lip abused between his teeth, pressing his palms flat against the wall at his sides with a concerted effort. 

Thumbing over the silky swollen head of Fjord’s cock, Caleb flicked his tongue experimentally over his slit, glancing back up to Fjord’s eyes, glassy and dazed with pleasure. Caleb wasted no more time, wrapping his lips around the head of Fjord’s dick and taking him into the wet heat of his mouth. As he sank forward a few inches, lips stretching wide around his cock, Fjord rumbled in pleasure, his hips stuttering in his effort not to thrust forward. And Caleb made an effort to make that a challenge for him, twisting his wrist at the base of Fjord’s dick while his tongue rolled over the underside, taking him as deep as bumping up against his throat before pulling back, cheeks hollowed.

Tongue working with every surge forward, Caleb intermittently sucked hard as he withdrew, twisting and pumping his grip around what he couldn’t fit into his mouth. The heavy drag of Fjord’s cock over his tongue set off sparks in the back of his head, dizzy with it. Gradually taking more of Fjord until his eyes were watering and Fjord hissed between clenched teeth as his cock hit the back of Caleb’s throat, swallowing and gasping slightly as he pulled back.

But he was only so patient. “Fjord,” Caleb coughed, pulling back, the tip of Fjord’s cock heavy and dripping saliva and precome against his lower lip and chin as he withdrew. 

Fjord groaned at the loss, at the image, shakily reaching forward and settle is hand at Caleb’s aching jaw, thumb stroking over his cheek. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low and lust drunk. 

Caleb’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, humming contentedly. Wiping the damp from his chin with the back of his hand, Caleb opened his eyes, giving him a pointed look. He laced his own fingers over Fjord’s, pushing Fjord’s hand to the back of his head, fingers catching and tangling in his hair, his intent clear.

“Less of a gentleman,” Caleb rasped, watched the words click in place behind Fjord’s eyes, just a little slow. Watched Fjord’s resolve begin to crumble.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Less of gentleman.”

Fjord’s heart spasmed in his chest, a shiver running down his spine as his cock, wet and dripping in Caleb’s hand still, twitched with interest at the request. Hardly a request. Caleb knew damn well what he wanted, and Fjord had gone and snapped every last thread of self-restraint between him and getting it.

 _Fuck_.

Fjord groaned, low and broken in his chest, letting his head fall back against the wall. The molten coil of pleasure in his gut wound tighter, tighter, driving his hips stuttering forward. His fingers clenched, twisting in Caleb’s hair, dragging a pleased, breathy sigh past his lips, red and shining and _used_ and still he wasn’t done. Fjord rolled his hips forward, Caleb’s jaw softening, and he glided past his lips easily, a slow dizzying drag. He set a gentle pace and shivered with the effort to keep it. Each thrust carefully measured, Fjord’s thighs twitched with the effort not to fully sheathe himself in Caleb’s throat, not to just chase his own release, not to wreck him. 

Still the tension in Caleb’s brow didn’t dissolve, his fingers digging into Fjord’s thighs. “Fjord,” Caleb hissed as he jerked back, insistent, displeased.

“Fuck, Cay,” Fjord swore, swallowing hard. “I don’t think we’ve ‒ _fuck_ ,” he choked as Caleb’s tongue flicked over the head of his cock, teasing over the slit. “Don’t think we’re talked this through quite enough for that,” he laughed, strained and breathless. The loose drag of Caleb’s hand down his cock, weeping with it, the pout of his lips, so fucking _disappointed_ , had Fjord about the combust on the spot. Then Caleb surged forward unexpectedly, and Fjord’s stomach flipped, nearly shouting as he watched the head of his dick sliding easy as anything past his lips, and felt _teeth_ , the bastard, scrape lightly over the ridge of it. 

His best effort not enough, bowing over slightly as his muscles spasmed, a growl rumbled low through Fjord’s chest. He thrust forward quick and mean into the tight heat of Caleb’s mouth, groaning as Caleb hummed around him. His hand gripped tight in Caleb’s hair, head held firm, and he fucked forward a second time, allowed himself a third, fourth, gritting his teeth hard, pushing past Caleb’s lips. And each fuck deeper, the molten thread through him coiling and bunching hotter and tighter, the back of Caleb’s throat spasmed around the head of Fjord’s cock, the silky wet heat intoxicating. Caleb’s choked gasps coming quicker, wetter between deep breaths through his nose, so godsdamned _hungry_ for it.

Caleb’s knees settled wider on the floor, hips canting forward slightly, the pretty outline of his cock still neglected and straining against his trousers, a bit of damp spreading from the tip. Caleb groaned around him as he canted forward once more against his own palm for a bit of relief before returning his grip to Fjord’s thighs. And fuck, _fuck,_ that wouldn’t do at all.

Sucking in a breath, Fjord shook his head, summoned up his willpower, stilling his hips. He tugged Caleb’s head back with the hand at the base of his skull, sharp like he’d come to learn made Caleb groan and his eyelids flutter, his other hand gentling him, soft strokes at the side of his neck, his jaw, his cheek, easing the hiss of both pleasure and protest and slowly hauling Caleb back up to his feet.

Fjord hooked an arm around Caleb’s back, pulling him close and turning them to put Caleb’s back to the wall. Fjord crowded in close, groaning against the softness of Caleb’s throat, at the messy jerk of Caleb’s hips, twitching and desperate against his own. Fjord ground his hips forward, only the tight fabric of Caleb’s trousers between the slide of their cocks, a choked sob forcing its way from Caleb’s chest. Hushing softly, Fjord swiped the damp away from the corners of Caleb’s eyes, wiped his spit-slicked lips and chin clean with the end of his shirt, peppering soft kisses against his mouth. The taste of himself on Caleb’s lips sent a burning jolt of arousal through his gut, right down to his aching cock.

“Easy, easy darlin’,” Fjord murmured against his mouth, words mingling with the quiet shaky pants as Caleb caught his breath, heart pounding against his sternum right in time with Fjord’s. “ _Pelor alive_ , you’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he murmured, sliding a hand down Caleb’s front to press his palm against the twitching outline of his cock, rubbing firm small circles, not interested in any more teasing. 

And Caleb moaned, broken and muffled against Fjord’s shoulder, hips stuttering before he cleared his throat, collecting himself as best he could. Licking his lips, he coughed once, electric blue eyes flying up to meet Fjord’s gaze. “What?” he rasped, smirk hitching the corner of his mouth, too much teeth not to be a challenge. “Not what you wanted?”

Slowly, slowly, his words worked their way into Fjord’s head with a growing dread. Fjord’s stomach dropped, a wave of nausea washing over him, rocking him back on his heels, threatening to sweep him over the rails entirely. He leaned back, took his hands off Caleb and pushed them flat against the wall, arms straight, taking a half step back. “Caleb,” he said, flat, careful, “you tell me, you did not just do that because you thought it’s what I wanted,” he demanded, swallowing, trying not to shake. “You tell me, and tell me the truth, or we’re done. We’re ‒”

Whatever pretense, or façade, or game Caleb was playing, they were playing, he dropped it, smirk falling, expression going still. Not quite relaxed. Still something calculating and driven beneath the brilliant blue of his eyes. But he eased, come back to himself a little, a hand settling against Fjord’s chest. “No, _nein_ ,”  he said, a wrecked whisper, his other hand at Fjord’s side, gently coaxing him forward, to come back. Caleb huffed, a soft smile in his eyes, a wry twist on his lips. “You are sweet,” he intoned, as if both unexpected and unnecessary, the latter of which gave Fjord pause. His hand stroked up to the side of Fjord’s neck, thumb sweeping over his fluttering pulse, eyeing it with interest. “And a gentleman. And I do not do anything I do not _want_ to do,” he stressed, looking Fjord in the eye.

And Fjord knew him well enough to see that, at least, was honest. His shoulders sagged, relief flooding his veins cold and clear. He stepped back into Caleb’s arms, tugging him close with an arm curled around his waist, the other sweeping up and down his back over his crumpled shirt. 

He breathed in against Caleb’s neck, long slow drags, closing his eyes. “How long,” he murmured against the delicate pale skin, a question, a promise, “since somebody treated you right?”

Caleb huffed, amused, was silent for a moment. And Fjord didn’t see his face, but eventually he felt Caleb’s hand sliding up his side beneath his shirt, oddly placed callouses scraping delicately over his ribs and back down to the curve of his hip. His lips pressed behind Fjord’s ear, breath tickling over his neck. “I suppose you will remind me, hm?” he hummed, voice still just enough wrecked to ruin Fjord. 

A low rumble escaped Fjord’s chest, taking in the state of them: a mess, spit and sweat slicked, red and raw around the edges, clothes still hanging off of them in their mad dash to get their hands and mouths on bare skin. Slowly, he straightened up, hitching up his open trousers over his hips, cock softened slightly in the interim, and grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head. He discarded it aside before starting on what buttons of Caleb’s shirt hadn’t already been torn free.

Caleb eyed Fjord curiously, shrugging out of his shirt when Fjord pushed it off his shoulders. Fjord hummed appreciatively, eyes roving the bare expanse of Caleb’s chest as he stood still beneath his gaze, lean but well defined. Broad shoulders were freckled adorably, but narrowed sinfully to soft hips that begged for Fjord to get his hands on them. An odd juxtaposition that had his cock stirring with interest once more.

And scarred. Perhaps more so than Fjord expected from a mage. The twisting pattern of burns, the pale tracks of blades, most faded with time and healing magic, no doubt, but even scattered as they were, too numerous to go without notice.

“That was possibly… hasty,” Caleb whispered against the bare skin of Fjord’s shoulder, hands lax by his side, breath coming easily. Unperturbed by Fjord’s looking, comfortable in his skin. Again Fjord didn’t know what expectations he had that it left him surprised.

There were plenty of things Fjord could’ve said to that, but the way he saw it, he himself was just as much to blame. “Could be,” he agreed, breathless, his hands sliding down the gentle curve of Caleb’s back, down over his ass, tugging him lightly against Fjord’s hips.

Caleb sighed, the quiet exhale of pleasure at the nudging of Fjord’s thigh between his legs almost lost but for the damp puff of breath coasting warm over Fjord’s collar. His hips rocked forward gently, fingers biting hard into the corded muscle of Fjord’s biceps, but the urgency was gone, his head rolling back, shoulders lax, accepting Fjord’s nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck without protest or pushing for meaner, faster, more. Warmth bloomed in Fjord’s chest with every small sigh and sound he made, that lilting mumble of a language he didn’t understand that fell from Caleb’s lips. 

And it was easy. So easy. And he never wanted to stop.

Caleb hummed, low, considerate almost, but lazy, like he couldn’t be bothered. “Try again?” he posited, the faintest ghost of a smile, a challenge, an offer, twitching over the bow of his lips, still red and tempting and parting with a quiet gasp as Fjord slid a hand down to the small of his back and jerked his hips forward in a dirty grind. 

And Caleb didn’t need to say more. Fjord stooped to drop his hands to the back of Caleb’s thighs and lifted, grunting at the exertion, hauling Caleb up against his chest with a surprised whimper, his legs wrapping around Fjord’s hips and arms going around his neck, holding on.

“Let’s,” Fjord agreed again, leaning forward to press a kiss to Caleb’s mouth, gentler, lingering, Caleb’s forehead coming to rest against his with a sweet gasp as they parted. Caleb rolled his hips against Fjord’s abdomen, nipping at his lip as Fjord pressed forward with another kiss in reprimand, slightly off center. 

“ _Gut_ ,” Caleb nodded, swallowing. “Because, ah, I have remembered, there is a bed behind that door,” he admitted, flushed, _embarrassed_ , and Fjord snorted, scraping his blunted tusks across the hollow of Caleb’s throat, making him shudder. Caleb’s eyes fluttered closed, drinking it in, and he’d never looked so goddamn pretty, relaxed like that.

“Hm, is that so? Cause I was eyein’ that desk right there…” Fjord teased, hiking Caleb up as he began walking, making for the door he’d indicated and freeing a hand so he could pull it open.

Caleb groaned, rolling his hips forward again, pressing his still painfully clothed dick against Fjord’s belly, and shouldn’t that’ve just been a crime. “You should not joke about such things,” Caleb threatened.

Fjord pressed Caleb’s back to the now closed door, using the support to hitch Caleb’s thighs up further on his hips and wrap one arm around his waist more securely so he could get the other hand between them, palming the hard outline of Caleb’s cock through his trousers, plucking at the laces. And Caleb writhed against him, hips jerking without being able to go anywhere, to get any more relief than Fjord’s hand offered, trapped between Fjord’s belly and the door. “Who said I was?” Fjord chuckled, thumbing over the head of his cock, savoring the small “ _ah, ah, ah_ ,” punched from Caleb’s chest with each pass.

Caleb swallowed, panting, tongue darting over his lips. “ _Ah, vie- vielleicht nächstes mal_ …” **

Fjord huffed, grinning sharply. “Let’s get reacquainted, you and I.”

When Fjord’s knees bumped the edge of the bed, as gently as he could, he lowered them both down to the soft sheets. Caleb looked in a daze as his back hit the mattress, head tilting back, eyes closed, knees falling open to better accommodate Fjord’s hips. He shivered, sweet and delirious with pleasure at the drag of Fjord’s mouth and hands down his chest, groaning in complaint when Fjord shuffled back too far, to the edge of the bed to quickly shuck his boots, dropping his trousers and underclothes without much ceremony. 

Fjord crawled back up the bed, straddling him, working at the laces of his trousers and glancing to Caleb’s face for permission. Caleb hummed his approval, nodded once, dropped his head back with a quiet groan and lifted his hips when Fjord’s fingers made quick work of it. Pulling his trousers and underclothes down his hips in one deliriously slow drag.

Fjord sighed sympathetically at the angry red and leaking state of Caleb’s cock, heavy and neglected against the pale unmarked skin of his thigh. It made him ache, his own cock stirring with arousal. “Let me take care’a that for you, sweetheart,” he rumbled, nuzzling into the crook of Caleb’s neck with light flicks of his tongue and scraping of his teeth.

Caleb exhaled deeply, shuddering, his spine arching gorgeously off the mattress. “ _Wenn du mich nicht berührst, schwöre ich bei den Göttern…”***_ Caleb muttered, dark, breathless and frustrated, and though Fjord understood none of the words, he thought he got the meaning well enough.

Fjord huffed, stroking his hand down Caleb’s side to grasp his dick lightly, thumbing over the head and making Caleb gasp, whole body jerking, his eyes closing tight as a choked noise died in his throat in an effort to be quiet. “This is gonna be a challenge if you’ve gone and forgotten Common,” he laughed, squeezing once, and Caleb keened. 

“Fuck you,” he spat weakly, fingers biting into Fjord’s sides, but Fjord only grinned, setting an achingly slow pace with his hand that had Caleb’s thighs twitching, pelvis jerking up into Fjord’s hand. Fjord adjusted to knee Caleb’s thighs further apart, making room for him to shift closer, the damp slide of his cock against Caleb’s hip only making it harder to keep still. 

“That what you want?” Fjord asked, breathless, his eyes flicking up to Caleb’s, tongue darting over his lips. Fjord himself had hardly thought that far ahead; he certainly wasn’t against the idea.

Caleb whined high and sharp at the achingly slow stokes, dragging his nails down Fjord’s back. It took Fjord’s hand stilling around his throbbing length, squeezing lightly in a threat to stop entirely, to force words into Caleb’s mouth.  “No,” he panted, shaking his head, not with the tone of one opposed, but rather with the certainty of one who’d already made up their mind. And _that_ sent a toe-curling shiver down Fjord’s spine. “ _Nein, Fjord,_ ” he gasped as Fjord twisted his wrist, quick and a touch mean, and opened his hand to take his own cock beside Caleb’s, rutting against him and into his own hand. “Fjord, _Fjord, fuck_ ,” Caleb nearly sobbed, saliva still wetting Fjord’s dick making for a hard, slick slide that had Caleb quivering under him.

And Fjord was going to remember that sound, his name desperate and lilting in that soft accent for the rest of his godsdamned, hells-bound life. 

“Then you’ve gotta tell me,” Fjord said between mouthing at the edge of Caleb’s jaw, gasping as Caleb dragged his nails hard over the back of his shoulders, leaving angry red welts he was sure. “What you want.” He thrust forward again, slow, deep, methodical, just enough to be a terrible tease but not to send either tumbling too close to the edge. “Don’t have to do anything more than this, if you don’t want,” he offered, breath hitching, the pace of his shallow thrusts quickening despite his attempts otherwise. And once the words started tumbling from his lips, he just couldn’t stop them, watching Caleb’s expression twist and ease in a gorgeous collision of growing frustration and consuming pleasure. And Caleb shuddering, eyes rolling back with each word wasn’t a compelling reason to stop. “Can make you come with just my hands on you,” he breathed. “Or you want my mouth on you? You wanna fuck my throat, return the favor? Fuck, Cay, how close were you with just my cock buried in your throat? Think I could make you come just like that?” 

There was a building wail in Caleb’s throat, desperately bitten back, smothered in Fjord’s shoulder, moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes as Fjord slowly but surely began to take him apart. Fjord put his weight on his forearm, burying his hand in Caleb’s hair, pulling his head back, nipping at the underside of his jaw. “Wanna hear you,” Fjord groaned, his hips grinding harsh and quick against Caleb’s, motions clumsy and jerking as Caleb shifted his knees wider, angled his hips up, cocks pulsing in his hand, and he was close, closer than he’d intended, they both were. 

Caleb shook his head furiously, lip bitten hard between his teeth, choking on his own halting shallow breaths. “ _Nein, nein,_ d- downstairs – he gasped, choking on air, feet planted on the mattress and rutting up into Fjord’s fist with short quick bursts, teetering dangerously close to the edge right alongside Fjord. 

“What, don’t want all those guards an’ staff downstairs to hear you?” Fjord breathed, a low murmur behind Caleb’s ear against sweat damp hair, his tongue flicking out to taste salt and sex sending a bolt of raw need through his belly. “Don’t want them to know what I’m doin’ to you in your bed?” 

Caleb’s chest heaved, hips stuttering, each of Fjord’s thrusts sliding hard and quick against his cock punching a breathless cry from his chest.

“That you’re rutting against me like a goddamn bitch in heat? _Seven hells_ , _Caleb_ , don’t want ‘em to know you’re so fucking _hungry for it,_ ” he choked, squeezing his hand around them, Caleb’s back arching off the mattress, hands clawing at Fjord’s back. 

“Couldn’t have that, could you,” Fjord gasped, pressure at the base of his skull thrumming, growing, until all coherent thoughts went white with raw delirious pleasure bubbling hot through his core, his muscles seizing, and he was spilling over his hand, over Caleb’s belly, making a beautiful fucking mess of him. Swearing low and broken in Orcish, choking on the brutal syllables, he twisted his fingers mean around Caleb’s cock, and with a cry he tumbled over the cliff of his own orgasm right alongside him. Riding the aftershocks rocking and panting against sweat-slicked skin until Fjord’s arms, trembling, threatened to give out. 

With a grunt of effort he barely managed to roll off Caleb and sprawl across the bed alongside him, limp and bone-weary, their limbs a messy tangle.

Time passed, he was sure of it. A honey golden haze drifting over them just as slowly, gradually, senses and control over their twitching, aching muscles returning to them. 

Caleb groaned, shifting to lie flat on his back at a more comfortable angle, clumsily pulling his arm from under Fjord’s side and untangling his legs. Watching through heavy eyelids, Fjord distantly noted how he lifted a hand off the crumpled damp sheets, muttering a low word, and with an inarticulate flick of his wrist a cool breeze brushed against Fjord’s skin, sweat and the smeared evidence of their most recent activities evaporating into nothing.

“Neat trick,” Fjord mumbled, glancing sideways at Caleb. 

He hummed something in response, eyes falling closed, hand dropping back against his chest, rising in deep, slow breaths once again. For perhaps the first time Fjord had seen him, had really gotten a good look at him, the lines of tension in his brow, that small furrow that marked the weight of gods only know how many concerns, melted. Sweat beaded at his temple. His eyelashes fanned out all pretty. Damp strands of hair turned a deep russet swept across his forehead, clung to his neck, drawing Fjord’s eye along the long pale curve of it to the dark red marks he’d bitten and sucked into delicate skin, marks that had something possessive in his blood purring. There was also a bit of guilt, yes. He should have asked, should have considered those “consequences” Caleb had been so centered on. But in that moment, his partner boneless and trusting enough to doze by his side and utterly sated, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

In the sluggishness that followed, settling like a warm heavy blanket, the taste of salt and heat still on his tongue, Fjord settled back, content to let that peace last just a little while longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:   
> * How pretty you are (like this)...  
> ** [stammering] maybe next time…   
> *** If you don’t touch me, I swear by the gods...


	14. duality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note, the next update will likely be delayed by at least a few days as my semester begins shortly. After that, chapters depending, I may be on an update every other week schedule as these bitches are long and I am busy. 
> 
> Alas, summer unpaid internships spent mostly writing sexual tension on my laptop cannot last forever.

Fjord dragged his blunted claws lightly over Caleb’s scalp, soft auburn hair parting, tumbling through his fingers, falling into Caleb’s closed eyes and being pulled away again with every pass. Caleb’s sleeping form shifted slightly, exhaled, a small sound muffled in Fjord’s side. Fjord repeated the motion, warm, satisfied, comfortable with the weight of Caleb’s arm slung over his middle, fingers curled loosely over his heart. The steady beat of the damn thing was the only thing through the haze that settled over his head and his senses that he was certain was real, replaying the last hour in his mind.

Fjord had reckoned, about twenty or so minutes after Caleb stilled where he lie, that he was no longer merely resting his eyes. A gentle nudge, a whispered word later, to neither of which Caleb responded, and it much more closely resembled a sound sleep.

Sound enough that Caleb hadn’t budged from where he’d passed out when Fjord roused himself from his own light dozing and pulled the top blanket up to Caleb’s middle, preserving whatever modesty they had left. Deep enough that he hadn’t stirred as Fjord crawled out of bed to pull his trousers back on and set about reading through the last files, organizing the map from the night prior. The sort of dead-to-the-world sleep that by all rights Fjord would have found nothing but adorable, if he didn’t suspect it was the product of many other sleepless nights.

Fjord had returned to the bedroom about half an hour later to find Caleb in precisely the same state he’d left him in; curled up on his side, burrowed into the blanket up to his nose, hair fanned out all messy and tangled against dark blue sheets and pale freckled shoulders. Stopping a moment in the threshold as he closed the door behind him, it made something in Fjord’s chest purr, deeply, selfishly pleased. Only more pleased as Caleb shifted, murmuring something too quiet and half-formed to hear, and rolled onto his stomach, blanket pulling down to reveal the dark reddened marks running parallel along the soft column of his neck.

As careful in shifting his weight across the mattress as he could be, Fjord had crawled back up to reclaim the warm little spot at Caleb’s back. Easing back against the pillows at the headboard, a light hand stroking through Caleb’s hair, Fjord was content to merely doze a few moments more as he decided what he was going to do if Caleb didn’t show any inclination of waking before morning.

Simply leaving hardly seemed like a good idea, not after the night before had ended the same way. Waking Caleb up just to say he was leaving seemed worse, given that by every indicator, the man could definitely use the rest. He briefly considered leaving a note before quickly nixing it, cringing just a little at how… incorrect, how _inadequate_ that felt. How presumptuous. 

However, that decision was delayed slightly when, with another unintelligible mumble, Caleb had turned in his sleep into Fjord’s side. Fjord froze, Caleb’s forehead coming to press against his ribs, an arm migrating across Fjord’s midriff, fingers curled in a loose fist resting just over his sternum, his heart beneath stuttering in surprise.

Caleb sighed, a quiet sound that was mostly warm breath tickling over Fjord’s side, and he stilled, the faint crease in his brow and hardness to his mouth softening again into something that might’ve been contentment. Except Fjord didn’t think he’d ever seen it on Caleb’s face to compare and be sure. Slowly, carefully, Fjord slid down the pillows at his back just a little, tucking Caleb’s curled form into his side with an arm draped over his shoulders, tracing small nothings over the dip of his spine. He resumed stroking through Caleb’s hair with his other, pulling another small sound from Caleb’s chest, another light breathy sigh, and then Caleb was shifting _closer_ , a leg entangled with Fjord’s.

And that, well, _that_ had been unintentional. But Fjord had a suspicion that any moving _now_ would mean waking the sleeping, emotionally guarded archmage draped over him who hadn’t ever given Fjord the impression he’d be anything but embarrassed and uncomfortable with the state he’d wake to find himself in. But the sight of it made something in his chest ache in the best and worst possible way.

He scraped his nails tenderly over Caleb’s scalp again, grinned as that elicited a faint shiver. Caleb mumbled something into his side on a warm, damp puff of breath. The purring in Fjord’s chest resonated, a low, satisfied rumble. 

And maybe he was in over his head. Maybe Caleb had been right, and they’d gone and committed some cardinal sin that they’d both suffer for. Maybe he’d gone and ruined everything he enjoyed about spending the time he had with Caleb, if Caleb reacted poorly, shut him out, sent him packing back to Darktow. But he hoped not. At the very least, maybe he’d finally condemned himself to his crew mates’ gawking and pestering and insufferable investigating, not quite sure how he was going to get away with the bruises forming over his throat and collar.

But gods help him, he didn’t regret a damn thing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb felt warm. Comfortable. For a while ‒ and he wasn’t sure how long, just as long as he was aware ‒ he drifted, disconnected, through a soft murky grey haze. Caught between the deeper pull of sleep and the persistent physical awareness of himself, an anchor to this world, the tug of which he couldn’t quite escape. Gradually though, gently, and through no effort of his own, his consciousness cemented and his senses returned layer by layer, as if rising to the surface of dark, still water.

He was curled in on himself, on soft sheets, under a thick blanket, around a solid form, warm and resonating with a low, deep vibration. As warm and comforting as Frumpkin’s weight purring against his chest. Then he became aware of the light pressure over his shoulders, down his back, making lazy movements over bare skin that made him shiver and twitch, but not push it away. And every so often ‒ and there it was again ‒ he felt a gentle dragging, a hand brushing through his hair, tugging gently all the way down to the nape of his neck before it retreated, and his brow pulled in displeasure, only for it to begin its path again. 

Caleb breathed deeply, a small note of pleasure escaping his chest on an exhale as his spine uncurled, stretching, and he burrowed further into the soft warmth against his chest. Breathing deeply, evenly, he absently contemplated rousing himself or trying to sink further into the clutches of sleep, as alluring as it was elusive.

But then those fingers were raking lightly through his hair again, his skin prickling at the cool brush of air over his shoulders. The soft curl of pleasure at the gentle touch was enough to shake him free from the last spindles of sleep muddying his thoughts, weighing down his limbs, dulling his senses.

Caleb swallowed, his hand uncurling flat over the smooth skin under palm, the steady beat and vibration beneath it. He took one last shuddering breath before groggily prying an eye open, blearily taking in the dark blue of the bed sheets and the hues of soft greens, confused. It took a moment, far too long, to place the warmth.  The smooth touch of skin. The calloused fingers stroking through his hair. The heavy arm draped along his spine, his own arm draped over a waist. Fjord’s waist. Fjord’s side he’d curled into.

With an electric jolt through his nerves like lightning, with all the grace of a ship running aground, Caleb was wide awake in an instant. Every muscle tensed rigid, his heart beat roaring in his ears. Horror pooled, turned, twisted violently in his gut, yanking a hissing breath in through his teeth, sending his heart skittering against his ribs. The adrenaline spike in his blood brought with it cruel clarity, burning off the haze like oil off water.

He heard, _felt_ , Fjord take a deep breath, his chest rising, low contented purr replaced by a resigned sigh. “If you’re gonna bolt,” he said, a low rasp thick with sleep, “please be mindful of your elbows. They’re fuckin’ weapons. And I’ve got enough bruises.”

But Fjord didn’t move, didn’t lift the arm over Caleb’s shoulder, giving him space to withdraw. Didn’t even stop the hand that was still sifting fingers through his hair, tugging lightly through tangles and knots, gently sweeping it from Caleb’s forehead only for it to tumble into his eyes again. 

It was odd. And… _kind_ . And that certainly made it strange, curious enough to still the immediate urge to bolt. To vanish. There was something he did not understand here. He knew that. Because _this_ , after what he ‒ what _they_ ‒ had just done, as furiously as they’d done it, did not compute. He knew what Fjord wanted before. Sex made sense. Was easy. Unwise, yes, but there was no undoing it, only ensuring they avoided the likely ramifications. This was… not that.

Fjord hummed, almost considerate, and Caleb debated pulling away so as to see his face, to better gauge his expression. But that would go both ways, and require him to pull away from where he was effectively hidden against Fjord’s side.

“If I pretend I’m asleep,” Fjord continued, rough pads of his fingers still meandering lazily up and down his spine, his tone underwritten with something ‒ amusement? ‒ “and that I didn’t notice how you curled up and clung on like a limpet, would that make you less inclined to panic?”

Slowly, Caleb withdrew the arm draped over Fjord’s middle, pulling both of his forearms tight against his own chest, and he untangled his legs from Fjord’s. Minimized skin contact. But he wasn’t yet quite willing to dislodge himself from Fjord’s side entirely. Not when Fjord was still lazily carding fingers through his hair and drawing idle patterns into the small of his back, slowly easing Caleb’s heart rate back down to a normal pace, the newfound tension gradually easing.

Caleb cleared his throat, collecting himself. “I am not panicking,” he said quietly, evenly, his eyes closed. He focused on matching Fjord’s slow, easy breaths. “I am… mildly alarmed. And rather embarrassed.” Fjord chuckled. “I am not panicked,” Caleb reiterated.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Fjord said, most certainly grinning, though Caleb couldn’t see it. “Because I’m not much inclined to move right now. And I’d rather not get kicked out the door half naked.”

Caleb just frowned, trying not to squirm when Fjord dragged his blunted claws up his back, making something that had only just settled contented in Caleb’s gut turn over and warm with interest. 

“You were…” Caleb hesitated, uncertain of the right word, or the one that would not cause offense, “purring.” An observation, though the upward tick of his tone, uncertain, made it half a question, seeking confirmation.

Fjord made a noncommittal sound, his hand petting over Caleb’s hair. “Happens sometimes,” he shrugged. “Would you like to talk about the noises _you_ were making?” Fjord asked, suddenly a heated quality to his voice, his fingers winding deeper, tugging just a little sharper at Caleb’s hair, pulling a note of surprise from the back of his throat.

“Ah, no. I think not,” Caleb said, felt his cheeks flush warm, ducking his forehead against Fjord’s ribs to hide it.

“No?” Fjord teased. But it was only that. He chuckled, low and quiet, and resumed his gentle petting ‒ which, really, Caleb didn’t have a better word for. And Fjord let it drop, shifting and digging his shoulders further into the pillows he sat against, settling more comfortably.

A quiet moment ticked by. Then two. And Caleb wished he felt a greater urgency to address what they where doing than he currently did. And not simply what they were doing on the macro level, regarding the kiss from the night before, the sex from just over an hour ago. But in that moment, lying naked or half naked in Fjord’s case in his godsdamned bed at just past five in the evening, with no plans to leave it.

“You said there was a development,” Caleb spoke up, distracting himself. “The reason you came here early. You did not yet explain what.”

Fjord hummed in agreement, winding his fingers through Caleb’s hair. “S’right. That Lord fella and his mercenaries packed up and left the Pillow Trove in a hurry. Not entirely sure why. Didn’t seem to be any sort of external communication we caught. Yasha and Jester were following them as far as the outskirts of Zadash. Molly went to poke around the prison, see who exactly they spoke to and what they told them.”

Caleb frowned. That struck him as very odd. And concerning. “This afternoon?”

“Right before I headed over. Yeah.”

He sighed. “ _Scheisse_. That is unexpected. I will ask ‒” He hesitated, considered Nott, whom he’d just sent to Rexxentrum, and who wouldn’t be back for at least a week. Then there was Beauregard, who had just stormed out on him, and thinking of Beau meant Dairon, and all of his suspicion surrounding the Cobalt Soul and, to a degree that made his gut wrench painfully, Beau herself. “Thank you,” he muttered quietly. “I will look into it.”

Fjord hummed in acknowledgment, and they lapsed back into silence.

It was too easy, ceding to those gentle touches, to the warmth that he found curling up against Fjord’s side. Too easy to go on ignoring the world outside, and even inside, right there and then, to go on ignoring the conversation that needed to be had. The words he had planned for it however no longer applied, given he’d planned them when the only issue he’d needed to address was how close he’d come to bending Fjord over the map in the study last night. A bad idea that was likely only prevented by lucky circumstances. He _knew_ that. Knew that blurring the line between professional and personal in such a way with Fjord would be components for a disaster. And so he’d convinced himself he would shut any possibility of that down immediately. 

And then he’d gone and nearly asked Fjord to fuck him into the mattress just a short while ago. And he would have too, if they hadn’t gotten too carried away first. 

No matter which way he looked at it… so much for self-control.

But, no. The real issue was that _he still wanted to_. Both of those things. Either of them. He still wanted them. The prospect still sent dull pangs through his chest, had a tight coil heating, tightening, curling needy in his gut. And over that, the physical reaction, he had very little control. 

And that ‒ the lack of control ‒  sent anxiety flooding through his veins. He knew that. Knew it was a need that Ikithon and sheer trial and error, desperate bids for survival, had ingrained in him. He had been honest with himself thus far; best not stop now.  

Caleb took a deep breath, shuddering against Fjord’s side. Fjord’s hand in his hair stilled.

“Caleb?” Fjord’s tone was cautious, his name quietly breaking the silence. He slid down the pillows at his back, inching down the mattress to Caleb’s level, rolling onto his side, propped up on his elbow. Fjord’s eyes searched his face questioningly. “You sure you’re alright?”

Caleb sighed, rolling flat onto his back. He closed his eyes, unable to meet Fjord’s. Too afraid of what he would see there.

“I am fine,” he said, tone flat and unconvincing

There was a pause. “You’re awful quiet. I’ll admit I expected… somethin’ else.”

Caleb took a deep breath, steeling himself. “That should not have happened,” he admitted, monotone. “I take full responsibility. But that should not have happened.” 

Fjord was quiet for a moment. Then Caleb felt the mattress shift, and his stomach dropped just a little as Fjord moved to the edge. But he did not rise to his feet. Did not make to leave. “And there it is,” he said, tired, and just a hint bitter. “I ‒ I’m not gonna play this game of wondering what you do and don’t want, Caleb. Now, I really am sorry if you regret ‒”

“I did not say I regret it,” Caleb interrupted. He could _feel_ Fjord’s eyes on him. His fingers started up a nervous beat against his own sternum.

Fjord sighed. “Alright, now you’ve got me confused.”

Caleb took a deep breath, opening his eyes to stare up at the canopy. “I do occasionally make… unwise decisions. And selfish ones. And if I could go back a few hours ‒ a power slightly beyond me ‒”

“Slightly?” Fjord quipped, grinning. 

“Yes,” Caleb agreed, just as dry as before. “Slightly.” Fjord’s mocking turned uncertain. “If I could, I may try harder to make a wiser decision. But as I cannot, well, I am quite stuck with the one I made. Hence this… _awkward_ ,” he decided on the word, slight self-deprecating grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “position I find myself in.” He motioned between himself and Fjord, at the space between them where he’d woken curled around him.

“I’ll have you know,” Fjord sighed, though there was a faint hint of humor behind his eyes, and in the quirk of his brow, “it’s not entirely flattering to be called an ‘unwise decision’.”

Caleb propped himself up on his elbows, grin twisting into something wry, something he couldn’t help. “Does it make it better if I quite enjoyed the unwise decision?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. And that was honest. No point trying to convince himself or Fjord of the contrary.

Fjord smirked, exhaling long and low. “That so?” Caleb raked his eyes up and down Fjord’s bare torso, not hiding it. He was pretty to look at. Warmth coiled in Caleb’s gut, still very much interested. “Well, I could’ve told you that, darling,” Fjord murmured, walking on his knees back to the center of the bed, coming to straddle Caleb’s waist overtop of the blanket. “Question is, what to do about it, eh?” His hands settled gentle at Caleb’s sides, thumbs sweeping over his ribs, making him shiver. 

Caleb took a breath, pulling his thoughts back in line. His hands came to rest on the outsides of Fjord’s thighs, just above his knees. Looking up at Fjord from where Caleb lay back against the cool crumpled sheets, what low light that filtered into the room came through the windows at Fjord’s back. It scattered dusty and golden across his bare shoulders, the silhouette of rumpled dark hair usually so neatly combed back locking itself in Caleb’s mind. “There is, ah,” he began, though it came out a rough whisper. He swallowed. “There is only to move forward and resolve it.”

Fjord’s head tilted to the side just so, shadows dancing across his face, a small crease between his brows. “Move forward… and resolve it,” he echoed, lacking whatever confidence Caleb had instilled in the words, no matter how falsely. 

“Yes.” Caleb nodded, a curt gesture. Fjord bit the inside of his cheek, his hand stilling against Caleb’s sides, something dark and disconcerted, then guarded, in his eyes. Caleb paused. “I have upset you,” he inferred, voice still even. “I am sorry. I do not ‒ I ‒”

“Caleb,” Fjord rumbled, almost a sigh. Sad, maybe. His blunted claws scratched lightly over Caleb’s sides, his skin prickling and muscles twitching beneath. “Sometimes you talk, and I think you forget that I’m ‒” He stopped, exhaled. “People don’t talk like that to each other.”

Caleb frowned, confused. He wasn’t entirely certain where he went wrong. But he had misstepped. That much was clear. “Like what?”

Fjord was quiet a moment. “Like everything’s a compromise,” he said. “I’ve never heard someone pick every word so carefully. I don’t know if you’re convincing me or convincing yourself but…” Fjord mouth twisted sour, working over the words. Another small sigh, some of the tension bleeding from his brow. “You know I’d like for you to be able to trust me, right?”

Caleb blinked, opened his mouth to speak, but the breath caught in his chest, not a single word forming on his tongue. Not a vague response, not a bid for time, certainly not a genuine answer. Did it require an answer? He… he did not understand the question. If it were a question, of which he was not even sure. A moment passed by, and another, in which Caleb was just as perplexed as the first, a sound aborted in the back of his throat before it could begin to form syllables. He watched Fjord’s face closely for something, something that was a lie, or a motive, or mask, but there was just… There was nothing. He looked at ease. Patient. And though he was not the one so exposed, Caleb felt laid bare beneath that gaze all the same. And it _ached_ , dull and deep in Caleb’s chest. But he didn’t know why. Perhaps because Fjord meant it. 

“Trust…” He ‒ he did not know what he was saying. How could he? He did not know what Fjord _wanted_.

Fjord hummed an affirmative, the soft note reverberating in his chest. “In a word, yes. Anyone else, after everything, I might ask to consider a friend. But with you ‒” he dragged the pad of his thumb over Caleb’s lower lip, a meaningless gentleness that Caleb couldn’t place ‒ “skittish thing,” he huffed, grinning softly, “think I’ll start with trust.”

Caleb’s heart throbbed, and he wanted, something vague and intangible and confusing. And that, for the first time today, properly had him beginning to panic. He took a shallow breath, felt himself about the shake apart, but Fjord made a quiet discontented sound, his hand dropping, ghosting down Caleb’s neck to press flat against his chest, a firm, oddly reassuring weight, rising and falling with every measured breath. Caleb cleared his throat, fell flat on his back again, had to look away from the dark pools of Fjord’s eyes. 

“I think… that means something different to you and I,” he whispered, staring up at the canopy.

Fjord nodded. “Maybe.” Simple. Impossible to discern what, if _anything,_ he was trying to do, or why. And that had Caleb’s stomach in knots. 

“It is not something I readily give,” Caleb said. Quiet. Too quiet. In part, just to say anything at all. But it earned him nothing he could decipher on Fjord’s face.

“Me neither. ‘S why I’m only asking you to consider it,” Fjord said easily. “I think it’d make ‒” he stopped himself short, exhaling slowly. “Make whatever we’re doing a lot easier. Whether this…” He inclined his head down toward Caleb, the rough pads of his thumbs drawing small circles over the bony crest of Caleb’s hips. “Or just working like before,” he added, eye contact fleeting. “Whatever you want.”

_There_. For the first time since he’d brought it up, Caleb detected something gnawing unsaid in Fjord’s words. In the slight bob of his throat as he swallowed.  In how he forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, unbothered. A nervousness. Caleb brought his eyes back to Fjord’s. “And what do you want, Fjord?” he asked, light and unassuming. “Beyond my trust.” Whatever that meant to him.

Fjord raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “Truth? I think I’d like to know what you were going to say, what you wanted, when you said you didn’t wanna fuck me.”

“Ah.” Caleb huffed, closing his eyes. He felt himself relax, because that tone he understood. Perhaps Fjord was not entirely serious in his answer to that question, evading it nearly altogether, but he was not lying. Caleb pulled his lower lip between his teeth to reel in an amused, perhaps only slightly smug grin. “Even if I trust you,” Caleb advised, easier than arriving at a certainty, “ perhaps we are not good enough friends yet for _that_.”

He felt Fjord’s weight, previously settled comfortably straddling his hips, shift forward, mattress dipping at Fjord’s hands and knees. Caleb felt Fjord’s eyes on him, right along with the soft exploratory brush of fingers over the column of his throat, where he no doubt wore a string of bruises which needed addressing before he left this room. “Now, Mr. Widogast,” Fjord breathed, words curling in Caleb’s ear, breath warm against his throat. “Not to be immodest, but I think I’m the perfect friend to trust with that sort of information. ‘Sides, of the two of us, you’re the one in the business of collecting friends an’ favors.”

Caleb smirked, sharp and lazy. “So what are you offering Fjord? A friend? Or a favor?” 

He felt Fjord’s fingers twined tight in his hair, tugging his head back sharply. He inhaled quick and shallow, breath hissing between his teeth as his eyes flew open in surprise. Fjord’s smile was devastating. “Maybe both. If you’re lucky.” Slowly though, Fjord released his grip on him, hand soothing gently through his hair. His smile faded, fell, still gracing his lips but gone from his eyes, replaced by something more sobering. “But then, I meant what I said. I’m not playing this game. So you can either figure out what you want, or ‒”

“It is not about what I _want_ ,” Caleb interrupted, sighing in frustration.

“But it is,” Fjord insisted, raising his voice slightly. There was an utter lack of understanding there, confusion, in his eyes. “It’s as fuckin’ simple as that.” Another glimpse through, revealing an increasingly deep-seated frustration underneath.

Caleb frowned. “I have upset you again.”

Fjord shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek as he met Caleb’s eyes. “I just think you’ve got a fucked up sense of autonomy is all.”

Both of Caleb’s brows went up at the assertion, as blunt as it was honest. He sat up, blanket pooling around his waist, and Fjord pulled back, sitting on his heels across from him. “Perhaps the same could be said for you, pirate. You assume much.”

“At least I know what I want,” Fjord countered, voice level again. Not angry then. Resigned, more like. And annoyed.

“You just recognize no barriers in taking it.”

Fjord scowled. “Perhaps I like a challenge. Perhaps you could learn a lesson there, rather’n always playing it safe.”

Caleb sneered, cold and reproaching. “Ah. So you are my ‘unwise decision’, and I am your ‘challenge’. I am glad we are on the same page.”

Regret flashed through Fjord’s eyes, immediate and stark enough to make Caleb’s chest twinge with guilt. “Caleb, that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said quietly, firmly.

Caleb sighed, letting the cold defensive veneer he’d summoned on instinct melt away, so very tired underneath. “I am sorry I am not as free with my decisions as we both might like,” he said. “Everything I told you at the gala? All of the information I shared, secrets dangerous or destructive the moment they are no longer secrets. I am sorry, more sorry than you know,” Caleb stressed, “but you _are_ one of those now. To me. And I am trying not to get us killed for it. Or worse.”

Fjord quieted, the tension bleeding out of him once again. He eyed Caleb carefully, considerate of his words. “Worse?”

Caleb steeled himself against the shudder that threatened to rip through him, forcing himself to pull his hands away from his forearms, fingers already pressing deep at the latticework of thin spidery scars: a stand-in for too many memories, too many cruelties he’d both dealt and been dealt like too many terrible hands of cards. “Yes,” he breathed. He pulled his eyes back up to Fjord’s, whose gaze also lifted, though from what Caleb couldn’t tell. “And I would not wish that on you, _arschloch_ though you may be at times.”

Fjord exhaled, long and low, his eyes closed and head tilted back in a moment of consideration. “I believe you,” he said after a moment. He opened his eyes, glancing at Caleb. “I’m sorry for bein’ difficult.”

Caleb shugged, eyes darting away. “As difficult as perhaps you have a right to be,” he admitted.

Fjord crawled forward, watching Caleb’s expression closely for any sign he should stop. Finding none, Fjord came to kneel in front of him, both hands cradling Caleb’s face softly, gently tilting his head back to look at him. And Caleb didn’t, couldn’t pull away. “Do you trust me?”

Caleb’s gut turned, knots twisting tighter. His brow pulled together, knit with uncertainty and just as much fear as the first time he stumbled away from Fjord the night before. “I ‒ do not ask me to ‒”

“Do you? Come on, love. It’s not that hard a question,” Fjord murmured, thumbs sweeping over Caleb’s jaw. His softness and terms of endearment, _not_ something Caleb would have expected by reputation alone, did nothing to ease the anxiety in Caleb’s veins that this man had both a way of creating and calming in confusing juxtaposition.

Caleb’s mouth was dry. “I think so?”

“Stop thinking,” he asked, somehow undemanding. “Do you?” 

“I‒” He froze, instinct as certain and inexorable as gravity at war with reason. “Yes,” Caleb stammered between shallow breaths, heart pounding. Yes, perhaps he did. Yes, in a way. Yes, he wanted to. But he could not ignore the voice that whispered _danger_ in his ears. Risk, without calculation. But Fjord smiled, soft and pleased, hollow of his chest rumbling with that low note, the almost purr that surely he was not faking. And the anxiety induced by that test of _something_ ‒ it surely was a test, yes? ‒ melted slightly with the kiss Fjord bowed down to press against Caleb’s forehead, warm and lingering. 

Fjord straightened up, thumbs stroking lightly over the sides of Caleb’s face. “What do you want to do then, to avoid us getting killed? Or worse. I’m all ears.”

Caleb swallowed, eyes searching Fjord’s face, expression attentive and patient as ever. “I suppose,” Caleb began. Slowly. Hesitant. “You and I require, ah, ground rules.”

Fjord huffed, an almost laugh, but he nodded, accepting that. “Despite what you seem to think about me an’ my lawless ways,” he said, shit-eating grin making Caleb’s stomach swoop, “I reckon I can learn a few rules an’ behave myself.”

“I hope so, _Kätzchen_ ,” Caleb murmured, sliding his fingers over Fjord’s where he cupped his jaw, turning to press his mouth to the inside of Fjord’s wrist. He closed his eyes, unable to look at Fjord’s face, too afraid that what he would see there would only amplify what he felt constricting his chest. “I have never done this before.”

Fjord chuckled, warm breath ghosting over Caleb’s skin. “What, never bent the rules a little?”

Caleb shook his head, couldn’t help but smile just a little. “Rules are not meant to ‘bend’. If I do not like them, I change them,” he said. “But no. I meant...” Caleb paused, breathed. Relished the warm, rough pass of Fjord’s calloused knuckle over his cheek. Committed himself to his decision. “I am not reckless, Fjord. This is reckless.”

Fjord raised an eyebrow, tsking. “Adorable,” he said, sharp grin promising chaos. “So fuckin’ innocent,” and he was most definitely mocking now. Fjord shifted closer, and Caleb was craning his head back, fingers through the belt loops of Fjord’s trousers, settled sinfully low on his hips. 

Caleb snorted, narrowing his eyes up at Fjord. “I do not think you know the meaning of the word.”

Fjord only grinned wider. “Nah, gotta dirty you up a little, I think,” he whispered, mouth curling around the words, a joke, an offer, a promise all rolled into one. “Sometimes you have to be a little reckless.”

Caleb felt Fjord push against his chest, allowed himself to go with it, dropping back against the mattress, propping himself up on his elbows. “So you say,” he breathed, almost gasped, Fjord’s claws trailing sharply down his sides followed by biting kisses over his collar, down his chest. 

Fjord glanced up, his hands splayed against Caleb’s hips, Caleb’s knees already shifting wider to accommodate him. “I _do_ say. Now how about while I busy myself down here, you tell me about these rules, hm? Unless that’d be too distracting for you...” he trailed off, quirking an eyebrow in challenge.

This man was going to be the death of him in more ways than one.

Fjord lowered his head, lapping over the angular cut of Caleb’s hips, and Caleb could do nothing to veil to shudder that tore through him, heart leaping against his sternum. “ _Nein_ , I‒ ah, I can do that,” he said, closing his eyes at the first brush of the blanket pulled aside, Fjord’s open-mouth kisses trailing lower. “Though you are welcome to try.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Some time later, Fjord steeled himself before the door, key in hand, very acutely aware of what he was about to walk into. He let the disguise self he had used to make it back to the Pillow Trove drop. Caleb, more than a little red in the face at the state of Fjord’s throat and collar (though that was of course before he’d looked in the mirror and seen his own, far more impressive set of dark red marks) had offered him one of the minor healing potions he himself took to address the bruising. Fjord was, admittedly, a little disappointed to see them fade, pale skin unblemished under his fingertips again.

_No visible marks_ , Caleb had said, gasped more like, strained with Fjord’s mouth around his cock. Fjord had pulled back, sucked a livid mark into the pale inside of his thigh for good measure. _I can make that work_ , he said, grinning, and Caleb _groaned_ , hissing broken Zemnian between breaths.

But they’d already broken that rule. Perhaps it worked out that way though, just this once.

Fjord had turned down the offered potion. Yasha wouldn’t give two coppers about where he’d been for those hours or with whom, but Jester and Molly… they would be merciless. And they were _good_ at it. A non-answer would only make them more suspicious. Nothing was off the table, particularly when they’ve been deprived of proper drama for weeks, particularly when it was their captain. And if he was to abide by the first and foremost rule ‒  _no one, not your people, not mine, may know_ ‒ as decent a liar he was, he still needed a kernel of truth in there to sell it. No matter how they would hoot and holler.

That rule gave him pause. As truly terrible as they were, he trusted Yasha, Jester, and Mollymauk with his life. Had trusted them with it on multiple occasions, and they’d yet to let him down. What Caleb was afraid of… it came from his people, people on his side of politics, not Fjord’s. And Caleb agreed.

_It is not about how much you trust them,_ he had said, eyes glassy, face flushed. Caleb brushed his fingers through Fjord’s hair, gentler with him than he wanted for himself, pulled him back up to kiss him, licking the taste of himself from Fjord’s mouth. _These walls are warded, against scrying and the like,_ he murmured between kisses, slow and undemanding. _Elsewhere I can make no such promises. And so we do not speak of it. Not to anyone, not between ourselves, not even to joke._

So he would not tell them. And if, _when_ , his companions teased and speculated, he would deny it. If that’s what it took to keep him, to keep this, just a little while longer. For as long as he could.

He pushed through the door, closing and re-locking it behind him before continuing down the short hallway. The door to the suite was open. He didn’t hear the others though, meaning perhaps they weren’t back yet. Perhaps a small mercy, though honestly, he might have preferred to get this over with. He came to a stop in the doorway, scanning the parlor. There was Molly, lounging with his feet kicked over the side of an armchair, examining two different designs of silk ribbon in his hands, but only Molly. No Yasha or Jester.

Fjord cleared his throat. “I’m back,” he said, making for his bedroom. 

Molly waved at him without looking, still occupied with running the ribbons through his fingers. “Well you took long enough. I’m trying to decide which of these would look nicest in Yasha’s hair. I ‒” When he froze, Fjord glanced in his direction to find Molly staring wide-eyed and open mouthed, a gleeful, merciless grin crawling across his mouth. “Moonweaver’s _mercy_ , Fjord. What did you _do_ to somebody to deserve _that?_ You look like you’ve been attacked,” he exclaimed, absolutely thrilled, dropping the multicolor ribbons and leaping to his feet to dart after Fjord. 

With Molly pulling at his coattails, Fjord sighed, stopping in his path, and let Molly haul him around to face him for a closer look. “Molly ‒” A lavender clawed hand grasped his chin, yanked his head up as Molly narrowed his red eyes, far too much like inspecting a horse before purchase. “Molly!” he snapped, shoving the tiefling away. “That’s enough.”

“I’m just impressed is all,” he said, hands on hips, grinning wickedly. “That’s good work. Maybe I want a referral.”

He flinched, something dark and possessive twisted in Fjord’s gut, nearly ripping a growl from his chest. But Molly being Molly clearly didn’t notice, thankfully. He was still bouncing with uncontained glee, reaching out and flicking at the stretched collar of Fjord’s shirt beneath his coat.

Fjord swatted his hand away, teeth bared in warning. “You’ll get no such thing. Keep your godsdamned hands to yourself.”

“Come on now, Captain, you know I’d follow you anywhere.” Molly was unable to contain a peel of laughter at his own vulgar joke.

Fjord bit his tongue, reining himself in. He was prepared for plenty, knew the teasing was coming, but this, his own reaction, he wasn’t expecting. Seven hells, and Jester wasn’t even back yet.

“I’m sure you’ve already found every whore house in the city, Molly,” Fjord said, rolling his eyes and doing his best to ignore the imagery Molly was doing his damndest to conjure up. He focused instead on how Caleb looked, head tilted back, flush creeping all the way down his chest, gasping his name all low and breathless as Fjord swallowed him to the root. He smirked at Molly. “You don’t need any referrals.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Molly complained, dropping down to the couch, lounging in as put-out a manner as he could. “I thought we were friends.”

“Not that kinda friend.”

“Suppose I’m just curious is all,” Molly sighed, smirking. “What sort of house of favors captures the attention of our dear Captain Tusktooth, most dashing gentleman-outlaw that ever sailed the Lucidian Ocean? Was he handsome? Tell me how handsome, Fjord. I’m in desperate need of a good story.”

“Go fuck yourself, Molly.” 

Molly just cackled. Fjord continued past, got as far as his bedroom door, when the door in the hallway slammed open.

“We’re ba-ack!” Jester hollered, and with pounding footsteps she quickly appeared in the doorway, a whirlwind of blue and spinning skirts as she ran into the room and leapt onto the couch with no heed for the tiefling already occupying it. All Fjord saw as he spun around was the jumble of giggles and Infernal curses and flailing limbs and tails as they both toppled onto the floor.

He had been so close to escaping and letting Molly relay the rest. Fjord prayed to Uk’atoa to just end him, then and there. The gods had no mercy.

Yasha entered soon after, lifting Jester bodily off of Molly. “You’re going to smash all the muffins you just bought,” she advised, a gentle rebuke, setting Jester back down gently. 

Without much apparent concern, Jester dropped into a chair and yanked open her haversack, peering inside. “No, I think they’re okay. I think‒ “ She glanced up, seemingly catching sight of Fjord for the first time. “Oh hey Fjord! Do you want a blueberry mu‒” Her eyes widened, her grin curling sharp and mischievous, her voice slowing, all faux innocence and utter glee, dropping to a level rich with the potential for havoc. “Woah there, Captain, looks like you got up to a little _hm hm hm,_ ” she said, wagging her eyebrows and making hand gestures that Fjord didn’t watch to accompany her crude noises and insinuation. 

Molly sat upright where he sprawled across the carpet. “As I was just about to say,” he said, blowing a stray curl out of his face. “Seems our dear Captain’s given up on getting anywhere with the archmage ‒” Molly’s expression froze ‒  “Unless…”

Jester squealed, tackling Fjord nearly to the ground. 

The air was very nearly knocked from Fjord’s lungs, Jester’s arms around him like iron bands. He would have gone down with the weight of her slamming into him but for the still closed door behind him catching the brunt of it.

“Jessie, fuckin’ hell,” he wheezed. “Let up, would ya?”

“Tell me Fjord. Tell me tell me tell me,” she demanded without pause, bouncing on her toes, hands clasped together. “Did you and Caleb ‒” she made a series of incomprehensible gestures, hands flailing with excitement, her whole body practically vibrating ‒ “ _you know?_ ”

“No, quit bein’ ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. And Jester and Molly both looked… oddly put off. Guilt reared its ugly head inside him, lying outright like that, but he shoved it down.

“O-kay,” Jester said, putting her hands up in not-quite surrender, considering the suspicious grin she angled at him. “If you say so. Cause you know, he’s got, like, a pretty cute butt. And probably lots of money.”

“All the important things, really,” Molly agreed.

“That’s true,” Jester nodded, perfectly innocent. “What else do you really need?”

Molly shrugged off Fjord’s confusion. “We’re only telling the facts.”

“The hell’s going on here?” Fjord demanded, arms crossed, eyeing them both sternly.

“Well I mean, it’s been a couple of weeks and I know everyone _thinks_ Caleb’s like evil or something because he’s _definitely_ killed a lot of people and also does _a lot_ of super shady stuff but he hasn’t done anything horrible to us or anything like that,” Jester offered, shrugging. Fjord couldn’t tell how much of that was a tangent and how much tied to whatever the point was. 

“All true,” Molly agreed sagely. “Plus, if you don’t, I might,” Molly said, the way he said it setting Fjord’s Orcish heritage to seething again.

“And I mean, I just think he’s pretty cool and I wish he wanted to hang out with us more but I guess he’s, you know, too busy trying to stop a war or something. And now you are too!” Her voice dropped low and suggestive again, grinning slyly. “And you know you’ve _definitely_ been spending like _a lot_ of time together lately,” she said, winking. 

“You most definitely have,” Molly chimed in.

“But!” Jester interjected, hands up. “If you wanted to wait like one more week ‒”

“I think you should’ve fucked him three days ago,” Molly sighed, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms overhead.

Yasha stepped forward, almost hesitant to get involved. “Ah, Molly and Jester have a bet going.” And yeah, that sounded about right.

Both tieflings in question erupted in complaint, talking over one another, talking at Yasha disapprovingly, at Fjord imploringly, all wild hand gestures and lashing tails. Fjord just glared, internally grateful to no longer be the one under interrogation, even for all he was externally annoyed. 

“Are you quite done?” Fjord asked, unamused. He had to raise his voice to cut through the noise.

Jester recovered quickly with a grin, shoving a blueberry muffin into Fjord’s hands. “Okay, well, I’m glad you had fun though with whoever you had it with. Yasha and I were _really_ bored, following these guys out of town. Yasha only let me draw like one dick on the side of his carriage, and only then because they were _so rude_ to the people selling fruit and stuff on the street corner.”

Yasha hummed her agreement with that assessment from where she was already seated at the table, polishing a rag down the length of her blade. From the state of it, it certainly didn’t need it. Yasha just liked to keep her hands busy.

Molly nodded, jumping onto the change in subjects. “And nothing on my end. If they caught wind of anything that sent them packing, it wasn’t from anyone we saw them speak to.”

Fjord blinked down at the slightly squashed muffin now in his hand, still caught up in the whirlwind that was his friends’ odd sort of… support? Though he had never expressed an interest to them. Never outright. He’d never thought it realistic. Until last night, when he just… took a gamble. 

Impulsive. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. It was all impulse. He couldn’t explain it to them even if they _did_ know. So what, Caleb was only human, and he messed up once and fucked somebody he probably shouldn’t have. Maybe he was even willing to do it again if the sex was good enough. But then what? A crude comment from Molly had him all in knots over it?  

Disgust with himself roiled hot and tight in Fjord’s chest, making his skin prick and shoulders draw in tight. Caleb was probably right to lead with his head rather than his gut. That was always Fjord’s problem. 

“Fjord?” Jester was looking at him with something confused, bordering on concerned in her eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, right,” he said, managing to keep his head above the rising doubt and turmoil inside. He tried to disengage from whatever this conversation was, having sufficiently navigated their suspicion. “I’m just going to, uh, yeah. Good talk.”

He got a smattering of responses, Molly stooping to pick up his ribbons and retreating to Yasha’s side, and Jester, not quite willing to pursue it, plopping down on the couch. She dug her hand between the cushions, retrieving her journal from where she’d taken to stuffing it when they headed out. The way she was glancing up at him though, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration and a slightly dampened mischievous glint in her eye, not so much looking at him as over him, taking in the details, he already knew the next subject of her drawings. Whether it was an embarrassing caricature or a note to the Traveller about her observations and concerns or even her bet with Molly though, there was no telling.

Fucking hell. He didn’t want to think where her imagination would take her if she _did_ know. He’d already glimpsed some drawings of Caleb in there, some more appropriate than others. 

Fjord’s mind went to their last rule, wrung out of Caleb when he was still hypersensitive and shuddering with the aftershocks. The taste of him still on Fjord’s tongue. _No physical evidence._ It hadn’t struck him as an issue, not writing anything down, not leaving anything behind. He certainly wasn’t one for love letters or flowers, and he certainly didn’t suspect Caleb to be, not that either of those things would be appropriate for what they were doing, whatever that was.

Again, he considered that perhaps Caleb was right. Fjord wasn’t just trying to be careful not to send him running back to Rexxentrum. For all he’d been enthusiastic under Fjord’s hands and mouth, certain of what he wanted once he’d come to terms with it, he’d seemed… genuinely concerned about the potential consequences that would only come later down the road, and Fjord hadn’t the gall to ask why, to ask about the scars that marred his skin, some almost surgical in their placement, not something earned on a battlefield. 

_That’s not your place_ , a cruel voice reminded him. _You don’t even_ know _him. He isn’t yours._

Generally, Fjord didn’t mind not having a solid plan. Generally, he was happy enough to get a feel for the basics and do what felt right as he got to it. But not for the first time, he questioned whether he was in over his head. 

This felt too delicate, brittle in his hands, no matter how sure he was that Caleb himself was hardened by fire and would not break, not over something as simple as this, a steady friend to fuck. And it felt too dangerous and volatile all the same. And Fjord was too attached.

Of that, he was almost certain.


	15. erasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw warning for the first section
> 
> AND THERE'S FAN ART??!!!??  
> Check out [this sketch](https://lumiink.tumblr.com/post/187028680172/take-the-heart-you-thought-you-had-you-ever-read) of that scene from the end of chapter 12 by lumiink on Tumblr, and ALSO this [panel](https://twitter.com/smoakyboo/status/1161905530870231041) from the beginning of chapter 13 by Smoakyboo on Twitter (nsfw art account, access may be restricted, so it's embedded here).

 

Chapter 15: erasure

Caleb stood at the bottom of the bed, the flick of prestidigitation still tingling at his fingertips. He carefully unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. First one, then the other. Each fold precise, the dark fabric of his dress shirt still starched, each line impeccable from his brief appearance at the King’s Hall just over two hours prior. Da’leth had required his presence to represent the Assembly at some brand of military promotion. A brief ceremony, consisting only of a few congratulatory words and the presenting of medals. Nothing more. And so Caleb hadn’t paid entirely too much attention. 

He had been far too preoccupied planning ahead.

He didn’t miss how Fjord’s eyes darted after the movement, heavy lids doing nothing to disguise how his pupils were blown wide, or how they lingered on his hands, expression pained and impatient with Caleb’s deliberate pace.

“Patience,” Caleb warned quietly, firmly, austere in comparison to the smug smile that tugged teasingly at the corner of his mouth, or the gentle touch, barely fingertips, that he dragged up the inside of Fjord’s bare thigh, knees hooked over the end of the bed, spread open and nearly trembling. 

But Caleb pulled back before reaching Fjord’s cock, heavy and hard, weeping steadily against his hip. A pearly dribble of pre-come smeared along his lower belly, taut with tension as Fjord held himself up on his elbows, biting his lip hard and watching Caleb closely. And Fjord  _ groaned  _ when he did, the look with which he treated Caleb dark and frustrated before his head dropped back, his shallow breaths quick and needy. 

He had Fjord naked and sprawled gorgeously across his bed. He’d had him naked and sprawled gorgeously across his bed for twenty-eight minutes now. A stark contrast, Caleb retained all of his clothing, with the exception of his coat, one of the formal, stiff and uncomfortable ones, presently draped neatly over the wardrobe door hanging open at his back.  

“Why,” Fjord complained, voice a heavy rasp, indignant almost, but resigned, “did you stop?”

Caleb grinned, reaching behind him for the vial of oil and meticulously  ‒ very aware of Fjord watching ‒  slicking two fingers again. 

“Because,” he answered plainly, stepping forward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, “you keep moving, and I would like to be able to salvage this shirt by the end of the night.” He nudged Fjord’s thighs wider, his knees up, shifting closer until Caleb could kneel comfortably at the end of the mattress. 

Fjord huffed but otherwise fell silent, flopping back against the sheets and throwing one of his forearms over his eyes. He grabbed his wrist, keeping both hands above his waist. Doing his best to behave. To follow Caleb’s instructions. A delectable shiver ran the length of Caleb’s spine, the warm curl of pleasure low in his gut going right to his stirring cock.

Caleb’s gaze lingered for a moment, dragging his eyes greedily from the corded, scarred muscles of Fjord’s arms down over the smooth planes of his chest to the lovely arc of his cock, painfully hard and begging for Caleb to resume his attention.

“Still comfortable,  _ Kätzchen _ ?” he hummed,  sweeping his clean hand up and down the outside of Fjord’s thigh. A reassuring pressure nothing like the teasing touches before.

Fjord scoffed, an odd choked sound that was properly indignant this time. “Could be better.”

“How?”

Fjord didn’t lift his arm from his eyes, didn’t meet Caleb’s searching gaze, but his expression looked pinched. He shook his head a fraction, jaw tight. “S’fine.” 

“Fjord,” he insisted, tone gentle but demanding an answer all the same. When Caleb got no response, he leaned forward, bending to lick a stripe up the underside of Fjord’s cock. 

Fjord hissed in surprise, a strangled, desperate noise in the back of his throat, spine arching beautifully before he jerked back up onto his elbows to look down at Caleb, eyes glassy and mouth red and parted with shaky breaths and shameless  _ want _ . Beautiful.

“How?” Caleb repeated quietly, still hovering over Fjord’s twitching cock, licking his lips and grinning when that made Fjord whine, brow drawn tight in frustration.

“Gods,  _ fuck _ ,” he swore, head falling back, eyes falling closed. “I was gonna say somethin’ stupid an’ rash about seeming to ‒  _ fuck _ ,” he hissed as Caleb’s slicked fingers trailed up the inside of his thigh, circling lightly around the fluttering and used rim of his hole. 

“Yes?” Caleb prompted him to continue, small kitten licks maddening against the sensitive underside of the head of Fjord’s cock. And Fjord shook, taut muscles quaking with the effort to remain still. 

“To remember you doing something with your hand,” Fjord all but sobbed, voice strained and breathless. “I shouldn’t have ‒ I’m sorry I even ‒  _ gods above, Caleb _ ,” he gasped, fists clenched tight around two handfulls of the sheets as Caleb drew the head of his dick into his mouth, sucking gently, fingers pressing but not sinking past his rim where Fjord desperately wanted him, where Fjord had been keening and clenching around him moments ago.

Caleb hummed around him, bobbing his head once but pulling away just as quickly as he’d began. His fingers resumed their slow, damp, teasing circles that had Fjord helplessly angling his hips up, breath faltering, back arching nearly off the mattress to press forward for more.

“And you were doing so well,” Caleb chided, straightening his back to kneel upright again, Fjord spread out clenching and shuddering before him.

“Fucking bastard,” Fjord swore, loosening his grip on the sheets only to readjust his white-knuckle grip on his self-control, sweat beading at his temples and plastering dark strands of hair across his forehead. Obstinate. “I said I didn’t want to  _ fucking  _ say it because I knew you’d ‒” His complaint was cut off by a frustrated growl as Caleb pulled his hands away entirely.

“Because I would what?” Caleb asked, sharp self-indulgent grin curling across his face.

“Fuck you,” Fjord choked out in lieu of an answer, too breathless to have any venom behind the words. Caleb chuckled. Fjord flopped back against the mattress, groaning low and wanton as Caleb reached for the oil again, drizzling slick over his palm with slightly more patience and attention to detail than was entirely necessary.

Caleb wrapped his fingers around the base of Fjord’s throbbing cock, thumb pressing, dragging heavy up the underside as he began a slow but steady pace that had Fjord falling quiet, complaints replaced by shallow breaths and sighs of pleasure.

“Better?” Caleb asked, bowing to press a nipping kiss to the inside of Fjord’s thigh.

A gust of breath escaped Fjord’s chest, hissing between clenched teeth. “You know I’m going to remember this, right? Because I’m going to remember you pulling this shit,” he grit out, almost threatening if it weren’t useless.

“I should hope so,” Caleb agreed pleasantly. “I certainly will.” He pressed two long fingers past Fjord’s already stretched and slicked rim with one smooth glide, spreading, curling, seeking that bundle of nerves that made him keen and shake and swear all the more creatively with every pass.

Fjord clenched around him, knees drawn up tighter, mouth and eyes flying open, panting and sputtering and lost for a moment in the pleasure Caleb wrung out of him. When Caleb dragged the pads of his fingers rough over Fjord’s prostate his hips jerked, cock twitching hard in Caleb’s loose grip, a wordless cry forcing its way between his clenched teeth.

“Easy,  _ bitte _ ,” Caleb gentled, repeating the drag, setting up a leisurely pace. So good and yet terrible, not nearly enough, he knew. “Relax. Let me,” he murmured against the soft flesh of Fjord’s inner thigh, eyes darting up to Fjord’s face, wracked with warring pleasure and frustration. 

And gradually, grumbling all the while in petty complaint, Fjord loosened beneath him, muscles relaxing, hips stilling their small jerking circles that Caleb so mercifully forgave, knees falling open wider. And Caleb pressed forward closer, deeper, working in a third finger, earning him a quiet moan in return.

Caleb hummed, low and pleased, setting about his task of slowly taking Fjord apart with his undivided attention. It was calming, in a way, his own needs forgotten as he worked Fjord open, sweeping his thumb over the head of his aching cock, squeezing tighter, stroking a little faster. Fjord cursed in surprise when Caleb leaned down to draw Fjord’s leaking cock into his mouth again, his tongue rolling roughly, hollowing out his cheeks in tandem with the coy brush of his slowly thrusting fingers over that delightful bundle of nerves. Pulling more of those lovely sounds from him.

Caleb pulled back with an appreciative hum. “You know,” he said, conversational, swallowing the taste of salt and musk and pre-come, resuming his slow deliberate strokes. “I have been thinking more on what you said about Felderwin.”

Fjord groaned, almost pained. “Now?” he questioned, doubtful and disapproving, fingers twisting into the sheets at his sides as Caleb’s dexterous fingers teased over that spot again, never hitting it directly.

Caleb grinned, pressing a searing kiss to the cut of Fjord’s hip, teeth scraping and nipping, looking up at him through his eyelashes to see Fjord shudder. “I do not think Dairon knows it ‒ do not think she is even aware of the study into the beacons I had conducted there,” he clarified, ignoring Fjord’s strained groan even as he struggled to push himself back up to his elbows and to listen. “But that the Kryn targeted the alchemy shop in Felderwin is possibly the best evidence she does not know exists to support her theory, which is mine as well.”

“Which theory is that again?” Fjord gasped.

Caleb was patient. “That a member of the Assembly is orchestrating elements of this war, preventing peace, through communication with the Dynasty.”

Fjord’s head rolled back, his eyes closed, open-mouthed panting as Caleb’s tongue flattened and darted over the head of his cock, flicking along the slit. “W‒ Why don’t you just tell her then? Work together,” Fjord asked, whimpering as Caleb curled and twisted his fingers inside him.

“Please, Fjord,” Caleb chided, tsking and dragging lightly over Fjord’s prostate, making him spasm and moan. “You are not thinking. If I tell Dairon, she will either think it a lie to position myself as her ally, or think it the truth, and believe I sabotaged my own research in handing it to the Kryn to divest myself of suspicion. I cannot win this way.”

Fjord’s hips stuttered, jerking between thrusting up into his hand and grinding harder against his fingers. “Caleb,” he breathed, eyes imploring, “you’re killing me. Please.”

Caleb hummed considerately. “I believe my solution,” he continued, pausing to wrap his lips around the head of Fjord’s cock, ducking down to take him nearly to the root before pulling back with a lewd pop as Fjord keened at the loss. “Is to have Beauregard answer their questions honestly, even to the extent it exposes me. I know she has been avoiding her mentor… avoiding me now for having put her between a rock and a hard place,” Caleb admitted, slipping in a fourth finger easily, thumb pusbrushing at his perineum, Fjord’s rim loose and fluttering sweetly around him. “Let her arrive at her own conclusions. Hopefully ones that do not needlessly indict me.”

Fjord gasped, back arching, hips jerking as pre-come beaded at the tip of his cock, oversensitive as Fjord writhed with every light stroke. “Ca‒ Caleb, I can’t,” he gasped, almost pleading. Almost. “I can’t.” 

There was that odd quality to his voice again, strained and light. Softer. Not simply a higher pitch or different tone, but something else, fluttering in and out. It was odd in that Caleb’s own accent came thicker, his ability to speak Common becoming fleeting altogether when Fjord had him like this, their positions reversed. Caleb hummed, curling his fingers inside him, withdrawing and stretching him open before pressing back in again. Another breathless cry. Strange.

“Can’t you though?” Caleb asked, smiling sweetly, pressing a light kiss to the dark bruises he’d sucked into the inside of Fjord’s thigh. Fjord’s jaw clenched tight, his walls clamping down around his fingers as he rocked forward, moaning as Caleb squeezed tight around the base of his shaft. But Caleb wrung no more articulate of a reply from him than that.

“Thank you for indulging me,  _ Kätzchen _ ,” Caleb murmured when Fjord shuddered, falling back loose and pliant in his hands. And because he couldn’t help himself, because Fjord positively  _ trembled  _ with it, Caleb continued in Zemnian, quiet murmurs nearly lost to the sound of every breath punched from Fjord’s lungs, every low groan and needy whine he made.  _ “I wonder what else I could do to make you purr for me, Kitten. You’re perfect. Lovely like this. Doing so well for me.”  _

Fjord opened his eyes, expression dazed, muscles clenching tight around him, hips jerking harshly in a confused stutter between fucking up into Caleb’s tight unmoving grip on his cock and grinding down against his fingers. “Ca‒ Caleb,” he panted, urgent and desperate. “I can’t‒ I’m‒  _ fuck _ ‒”

_ “You sound so pretty, fucking yourself on my fingers like this. How much prettier would you sound on my cock, I wonder,”  _ Caleb continued, syllables falling honeyed and meaningless on Fjord’s ears, making him whine and gasp and shudder regardless. Then, reverting back to Common, grinning viciously, “Do you think I could make you beg for it,  _ Kätzchen _ ?”

A low growl ripped through Fjord’s chest, frustration and  _ need _ boiling over in a wave of defiance as he glared at Caleb, who only smiled, all canines, the question still standing. “Fuck no,” Fjord grit out, chest heaving, expression contorted in a sneer. “But if you don’t start takin’ some fucking clothes off and get your dick in me, I’m gonna haul you up here and do it myself.”

Caleb’s hands stilled. His skin prickled warmly, his breath catching for the barest moment as tension and heat pooled in his belly. His neglected cock, aching and straining against his trousers, chose that moment to remind him of its interest. Caleb’s tongue darted over his bottom lip, drawing it in between his teeth as he considered it. He watched as Fjord’s eyes darted to his mouth after it.

“Hm. As you wish.”

Carefully, while Fjord groaned but tolerated the loss, his rim clenching and fluttering molten hot around him, Caleb pulled his hands free, cleaning them of oil with a flick of prestidigitation. Fjord watched him intently, surely undressing him faster with his eyes than Caleb set about doing with his hands. He shifted back from where he knelt to stand at the foot of the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. Shrugging out of it, he shivered at the cool air against flushed skin, folding it neatly before depositing it atop the dresser. Fjord’s eyes dragged over exposed skin, lingering at the outline of his dick caught painfully between Caleb’s thigh and the constraints of his trousers. 

Next went his belt, unbuckled and pulled free with a faint slither of leather across fabric, set aside with his shirt. Then his boots and socks, pulled off and nudged aside to sit on the floor at the foot of his bed. Only then did Caleb start plucking at the laces of his trousers, reaching for the vial of oil with a free hand and returning to his knees at the end of the bed, eyes roving Fjord’s length, skin bare, lean muscles glinting with sweat and slick.

“What do you want, hm?” Caleb murmured, setting it down on the mattress beside Fjord’s hip within reach. “Are you comfortable as you are? Would you like to move?”

Fjord panted, still far too keyed up, his hands clenching in the sheets. “Come ‘ere,” he mumbled, eyes heavy, motioning jerkily with his chin and a tilt of his head. 

Caleb crawled up the bed, straddling Fjord’s hips, his hands smoothing gently over his sides. One of Fjord’s hands travelled up Caleb’s still clothed thigh, up his chest, heart racing beneath his sternum, rough fingers curling around the back of his neck and pulling him down even as Fjord pressed forward, kissing him hard and slightly off center. He drew Caleb’s lip between his teeth, nipping as he pulled away, breathless.

Still Caleb hovered close, a warm prickling flush crawling over his skin and his breath shallow even as fleeting as the kiss was. The drag of Fjord’s blunted claws down the front of his chest was light, not even leaving a mark, but still he couldn’t help but sigh, wanting and pleased. Couldn’t help but rock his hips forward, shivering as he found friction against Fjord’s abdomen. His exhale hissed between his teeth.

Fjord huffed, low and sympathetic, his hands moving to tug at the fastenings of Caleb’s trousers, gently shoving them down his hips, freeing his achingly hard cock. With a sharp breath, Caleb rocked forward into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

Without preamble or warning, Caleb felt Fjord surge forward underneath him. His eyes flew open, a surprised note pulled from his chest as Fjord’s hands grabbed his hips roughly and he turned, rolling them over, positions reversed, Caleb’s back hitting the mattress with a jolt.

He reoriented himself as Fjord roughly tugged his trousers and smallclothes further out of the way, straddling Caleb’s waist and grinding down hard against his cock as Caleb could only gasp and groan, fingers digging into Fjord’s biceps hard enough to bruise.

“You could have asked,” Caleb managed to spit out, thrusting up jerkily into Fjord’s hand, panting as he watched Fjord reach for the oil beside them with his other. 

Grinning down at him, far too pleased with himself, Fjord flicked out the stopper and poured a generous amount into his hand before liberally coating Caleb’s cock with slow strokes.

“Perhaps,” Fjord agreed, taking his time, squeezing tight and twisting his wrist deliberately. Grinding his hips down occasionally to take his own pleasure until, try as he might to swallow it back, Caleb was crying out with wordless pleasure. “Doesn’t sound like you mind,” he purred against Caleb’s ear, pressing a line of damp kisses against the underside of his jaw until he was claiming his mouth again, Caleb’s lips parting effortlessly, groaning as Fjord’s tongue fucked into him mouth.

Fjord didn’t even break the messy kiss except for their damp panting and sighing as, guiding Caleb’s cock with one hand, Fjord’s hips sank down slowly, the head of his dick pressing past Fjord’s rim into searingly tight heat. He lowered himself inch by breathless inch until he was pressed flush against Caleb’s hips, thighs trembling, hands splayed across Caleb’s heaving chest, hips already rocking forward and back in a slow rhythm. Caleb gasped against Fjord’s mouth, their foreheads pressed together, his eyes closed tight, hands scrabbling desperately at Fjord’s shoulders and the back of his neck for purchase.

It was mind numbing, need and want and raw aching pleasure setting every nerve alight, consuming all of his senses, replacing every other thought. Each jerking roll of Fjord’s hips began to pull a strangled cry from Caleb’s chest, muffled in Fjord’s shoulder or swallowed by the messy, breathless kisses he continued to steal from Caleb’s lips.

That was of course the moment that Caduceus, from somewhere in the world, chose to cast sending. 

With a spark in the back of his mind, the deep voice Caleb associated with anything  _ but  _ his present activities crept into his skull. The sudden presence ripped him bodily back into the reality of the moment, to the same effect as a bucket of ice water crashing over his skin.

“Ah, Mr. Caleb, I hope you’re having a pleasant morning,” Caduceus’s voice intoned. 

And Caleb  _ flailed _ , hands pushing at Fjord’s chest, mouth clamped shut, not breathing for fear of the spell carrying a single syllable to Caduceus’ far too insightful head. 

“Miss Nott came by the Temple and asked me to tell you she made it to Rexxentrum just fine.”

Fjord locked up, frozen, confusion and alarm written across his face at whatever shock passed over Caleb’s. Caleb bit his lip  _ hard  _ to keep silent, shushing Fjord with a look, tapping his temple. And by the realization slowly dawning in Fjord’s eyes, and by how he laughed, sitting back on his heels and making Caleb go red and nearly choke on air he wasn’t breathing with the effort to make no sound as he shifted  _ still inside him _ , Fjord quickly caught on.

“Message, huh?” Fjord chuckled. “Well that’s untimely.” Caleb glared, all effect lost as Fjord just grinned far too sharply for comfort, rolling his shoulders and arching to stretch his back,  _ groaning  _ in a way that delayed Caleb’s response further as he collected himself.

“Ah, Caduceus,” Caleb tried to respond, desperate to keep a level tone, to not sound breathless or disheveled or distracted, all of which he very much felt. “ _ Guten tag  _ to you as well.” And he mostly succeeded, until, with a shit-eating grin, making direct eye contact with Caleb all the while, Fjord rocked forward up onto his knees and fucked himself back down on Caleb’s cock. He sank down dizzyingly slowly, yanking a strangled, alarmed noise from the back of Caleb’s throat that fell right in the middle of his response, the spell still buzzing in the back of his skull. “Thank you very much and say  _ hallo  _ to Nott for me,” Caleb finished in a rush, breathless and shaking as Fjord swivelled his hips  _ no matter _ how Caleb spasmed, curling forward, clawing at the back of his shoulders. Gasping wordlessly, silently, teeth bared, unable to open his eyes. 

“What  _ the fuck _ ‒” Caleb hissed, cutting himself off with a dispared, choked cry as Caduceus’ calm easy voice returned to his head, recasting, and Fjord  _ just kept moving _ , draping himself over Caleb’s chest and laving maddeningly light kisses over his jaw, down his neck, grabbing Caleb’s wrists and tsking when he ineffectively pushed at Fjord’s chest. And Caleb  _ shook  _ when Fjord pinned his wrists against the mattress with little apparent effort, something fluttering and turning low in his gut. He would have been angry if  _ by the gods _ it didn’t  _ do things  _ for him.

“I certainly will,” Caduceus began again, a concerned note to his tone evident in the slow, almost cautious delivery of his words. “But ‒ “

“Someone else in your ear, love?” Fjord murmured, low and breathy right in his ear, nipping at his throat with a slow swivel of his hips that had Caleb’s heart stuttering and eyes rolling back, grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt. “Don’t wanna say hello for me?”

“‒ Mr. Caleb, are you well? I’m sorry if I overstep, however ‒ “

Fjord  _ moaned _ in his ear, low and filthy as a two copper whore. And Caleb sobbed, couldn’t breath, couldn’t pull his hands free, Fjord’s grip on his wrists tightening as he fucked himself slowly, biting his lip with a lopsided, coy grin, watching Caleb writhe under him helplessly. And it was good,  _ so very good _ , and too much and maddening because  _ Fjord knew it  _ all the same.

“‒ you sound… distressed? I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” 

Caleb forced himself to take a deep breath, air hissing through his teeth, moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes as the molten heat in his core threatened to burn through him. As Caduceus’ voice faded, the spell taking hold on his end to carry his reply, he redoubled his efforts to collect himself. Every ounce of self control… “No,  _ ja _ , I am fine Caduceus, thank you. Just… “ Caleb’s chest seized in a silent cry as Fjord’s hips snapped down, groaning prettily, leaning down to nibble at his thundering pulse. “Caught me in the middle of some ‒ “ he steeled himself, intoning as flatly as he was able ‒ “concentration exercises that are getting the better of me.”

Fjord chuckled. “Oh, that what we’re calling it?” he asked, mouth working down Caleb’s throat, tongue flicking against his skin to taste.

“I swear by the gods,” Caleb growled against Fjord’s ear as soon as the spell faded. “You will regret ‒” He cried out in frustration as the spell tickled at his mind  _ again _ . He flopped back, boneless and defeated, which Fjord just chuckled quietly, sucking a mark just below Caleb’s collar, and another, though at least his hips mercifully stilled to a slow rocking.

“I see,” Caduceus said, sounding reassured,  _ somehow _ . “Then I’ll leave you to it. But I wanted to let you know I’m returning to the Blooming Grove until I hear I’m needed.” Fjord pulled back, eyeing the red marks he’d sucked into Caleb’s collar with a pleased hum. With one last “Have a good day, Caleb,” Caduceus’ voice faded.

“ _ Danke _ . Take care,” Caleb breathed, chest heaving, melting into the mattress as the spell dissipated.

Caleb tugged weakly at Fjord’s grip on his wrists, still pinned to the mattress by his head, unrelenting. “Fjord,” Caleb panted, voice ruined, “ _ bitte _ ...” He shuddered, flushing too warm under his skin as Fjord rolled his hips again, releasing Caleb’s hands, groaning as he straightened his spine and fucked back hard against Caleb’s stuttering thrusts. “ _ Kä _ ‒  _ Fjord _ ,” Caleb gasped, strained, hips thrusting up into Fjord’s heat with a broken moan, his walls clenching tight around him. “I w‒ I can’t ‒  _ gottverdammt _ ,” Caleb swore, choking, the molten coil in his gut winding tighter, burning hotter, needing more, threatening to snap.

Fjord laughed, breathless, near delirious. “I don’t have much left in me either, sweetheart,” he promised, grinding his hips down hard enough, fast enough as he chased after his release, that Caleb had to think twice about how  _ different _ his voice sounded. He barely registered it. But his mind snapped back from that line of thought almost immediately, the roiling heat and tension building low in his belly too much. The shiver cascading down his spine had his toes curling and hips snapping up to meet Fjord’s thrusts as he rode him toward what would be an embarrassingly fast-approaching cliff if either of them weren’t too preoccupied to think about it.

Desperately grasping for more, Caleb wound his fingers into Fjord’s sweat-damp hair, nails scraping, tugging as he brought his lips to Fjord’s ear. “Touch yourself,  _ lieb _ ,” he rasped, accent thick, his pulse loud enough in his ears to nearly drown out Fjord’s low moan. 

Fjord’s hips stuttered as he finally worked a hand between them to jack himself roughly in time with his messy grinds against Caleb’s hips, Caleb’s cock buried deep inside him glancing off his prostate with every jerk and grind as Caleb tilted his hips up to meet each thrust. 

“Come for me,  _ Kätzchen, _ ” Caleb gasped, words stilted and breathless, but Fjord groaned and spasmed around him all the same, spine curling and locking, every fiber trembling. Fjord rolled his hips back once, twice, and then he was choking on a wordless cry, cock jerking and spilling across his hand and Caleb’s abdomen. Fjord’s walls clenched tight, grinding down hard, fucking Caleb through his own orgasm which came crashing over him. Swearing low and breathless in fractured Zemnian. Fucking his come deep. 

Shivering and bone-weary, they gradually came down from it, returning to their senses, breathing hard and rocking, grinding against each other to prolong and ride out the waves of heat, pleasure and exhaustion that rolled over them. Oversensitive and keening at the barest touch. Fjord’s arms shook, collapsing and sliding off of Caleb’s chest to sprawl across the crumpled damp sheets beside him.

Their heavy panting filled the space, otherwise quiet but for their slow attempt at recovery.

Fjord cleared his throat after a long moment, taking another deep steadying breath. “So,” he said, eyes closed, shivering at the cool breeze of prestidigitation as Caleb gathered himself enough to clean them up with the cantrip. “Who’s Caduceus?”

Caleb groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes as if it might blot out his existence, or at least the memory of that horrid exchange. He felt the heat of embarrassment crawl across his face. “A cleric. In Rexxentrum,” Caleb explained briefly between deep inhales, recollecting himself. “Nott arrived.”

“Huh,” Fjord breathed. “She deliver it yet?” he asked, glancing sideways at Caleb.

Caleb shook his head. “No. Today or tomorrow. I presume.”

The silence lingered, settling heavy and comfortable over them both. Fjord sighed, stretching his arms over his head, spine arching lazily with a contented groan. “About to start the ball rollin’ then…”

Caleb merely hummed in agreement, little more to add.

He allotted himself ten minutes more, sluggishly sorting through the information he had not expected to arise or to need to file away when he’d taken Fjord to bed. He was left sated, yes, bone-weary and satisfied, but not entirely satisfied; something anxious wormed itself into the back of his mind, not quite fully-formed, but worrisome enough to garner his attention.

He added it to the list of all that which could wait. For the foreseeable future, the situation with Dairon and the timeline Nott was about to begin took precedence. A collision between the two would be unfortunate. But for now, he curled into Fjord’s side and closed his eyes, humming appreciatively as clumsy fingers began to work through his hair.

Nine more minutes to spare. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

That morning, every step through the streets of Zadash had been accompanied by the crunch of fresh snow underfoot, still a white sticky powder from last night’s storm. Come evening, snow had turned to grey slush and the worst trodden paths had been tamped down under foot and hoof and cart into dirt-blackened sheets of ice, the thawed damp refreezing in the inhospitable cold as the distant warmth of the sun rapidly retreated. The days grew shorter still. The darkening sky was made only darker by the smoke churning from nearly every chimney, until even the crisp wind tasted of burning lumber or, more unpleasant, coal soot. 

Fjord idly considered this as he watched two Crownsguard shoving at the tail of a rickety open-backed cart which had seen a few seasons too many. It had come to a standstill in the middle of the road, wheels and obstinate donkey’s hooves sinking inches into the filthy slush and deep rivets in the road. They were prying at wooden planks leveraged beneath the back wheels that may have come from the back of the cart itself, while the cart’s owner, a burly woman wrapped thickly in muck-splattered layers, pulled harshly at the beast’s reins. The loud braying sound it made in response grated at Fjord’s ears, piercing right along with the frigid wind down to his bones.

Fucking hell. Fjord hated the cold. The cold, and everything that came with it.

“Exandria to Fjo-ord,” Jester was hollering from a good few paces ahead down the lane, a song-song sort of annoyed tone. “Exandria to Fjord. You’re about to start blocking traffic worse than the stupid donkey.” She, Molly and Yasha had stopped walking, looking back at him with differing expressions of mild annoyance at being stuck in the cold and concern.

Inhaling briskly, Fjord buried his chin deeper into the thick furred collar of his coat, turned up against the wind, and resumed walking. 

“I think it’s actually a mule,” Yasha observed, watching the straining beast with a faint sympathetic tilt to her frown.

Molly hopped to the side as Fjord pushed past, flicking a bit of muck from his boot with a grumble of annoyance as Fjord made for the adjacent wall of the small general store that broke the wind, if only to get out of it for just a moment. Stopped there, back to the wooden slats, the three others followed suit and huddled in close on either side. 

Molly glanced over his shoulder at the animal in question, no less stuck than before. “What’s the fuckin’ difference?” he huffed, crossing his arms close to his chest.

“Well, a mule is half horse,” Yasha said, apparently bothered the least by the cold.

“And it can’t have  _ babies _ ,” Jester added, hopping up and down on her toes to keep warm, a broad smile peeking over her scarf.

Molly huffed, giving the donkey-maybe-mule a second look. He looked back at Jester. “But can it still fuck though? Or is it just broken down there? Because no babies isn’t so bad by itself but if this is a lifestyle we’re talking about…”

Yasha hunched her shoulders against the wind, not minding how Molly inched closer to take better shelter she provided against it. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it, frowning. “I guess I don’t really know.”

“Do you want me to ask the lady trying to get it unstuck?” Jester offered cheerily. “I could ask her.”

“But we haven’t even determined if it  _ is  _ indeed a mule yet,” Molly countered, squinting around Yasha’s bicep at the beast, then looking back at their small circle. “If it’s a donkey, because I don’t think any of us are contesting that donkeys can have babies  ‒ “

“Oh, he’s right,” Jester agreed sadly, nodding. 

“ ‒  she might not even know,” Molly finished.

Fjord sighed, trying to shake himself from his thoughts despite how they clung to him like his shadow, though they colored his mood far darker. “Why are we talking about this?” he asked, pained. “No one is asking that poor woman anything unless it’s whether she’d like a hand getting that fucking cart out of the road. Or maybe help shutting the donkey or mule or whatever the hell it is up,” he said, nearly snapping at the end.

His crewmates fell alarming silent, each blinking back at him, brows lifting in surprise.

“So, it’s one of those days, eh?” Molly asked, lacking the usual degree of sarcasm that would have grated at Fjord worse than the braying. 

“One of  ‒” Fjord stopped, his teeth clacking shut jarring through his skull. It was only then that he stopped long enough to consider what he’d said, and more importantly,  _ how  _ he’d said it. The loose drawl that found a home in Port Damali’s docks had abandoned him for his native, softer Tal’dorein accent.

Whole blasted thing serves him right for living in his own head all day. 

Fjord turned and shouldered his way between Molly and Yasha, his three companions at his back as he continued down the lane, head bowed and shoulders hunched against the onslaught of winter. Because Jester wanted fresh pastries. And there was a bakery she adored on the opposite side of the Pentamarket. Because that’s where they were going. And he was keeping his mind on task. His eyes trained on the ground before him, Fjord tried to restrain his mind from wandering beyond the present moment, beyond the slush puddles and black ice he tried to avoid with each step. Beyond his friends following just a few feet behind, huddled together and whispering conspiratorially. 

He figured they’d send Yasha up to try and figure out where the mood and whole fucking personna swing had come from. She had a quiet, unobtrusive way of navigating his head. But if they sent Jester, also possible, it meant they’d been paying attention enough to know he’d been off since their day had even started. 

Fuck the cold. And fuck his lazy-ass serpent patron, too goddamn up its own ass to use fucking words when it wanted to talk. 

“Hey Fjord?” Jester trilled, skipping up ahead to keep pace at his elbow.

Who was he to assume those three were ever  _ not  _ aware of his bullshit. 

“I have a question,” she declared, poking at his ribs.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, frost forming on his breath, and threw her a sideways glance. But otherwise kept his mouth shut. He hated having to actively decide how he was going to sound when he opened it. Hated that he could so readily flip it on and off at will that he hardly even knew what  _ he  _ sounded like anymore. 

“So I really love the cinnamon rolls at this place, because they remind me of Nicodranas you know?” she explained, pouting just a little, as if this were a real conundrum. “And I also like the blueberry glazed donuts. But the last time I was there they had this new sort of red colored muffin filled with vanilla cream.” She looked at him expectantly, bouncing along over patches of ice and wet snow as Fjord plodded right through, heels of his boots scuffing with each step.

He made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders, to walk a little straighter. Brooding got him nowhere when Jester began meddling. He cleared his throat, swallowing dryly a few times before committing to dropping Vandren’s voice, for now at least.

“And there’s a question in all that, where, exactly?” he asked quietly, words feeling funny on his tongue, but Jester absolutely beamed at him, toothy grin nearly ear to ear.

“Because I don’t know if I should buy what I  _ know  _ I like,” she elaborated, talking animatedly with her hands, “or buy something that  _ might  _ be good but might also not be. And if I don’t like it, then I’d be left without the stuff that I do like. You know?”

He smiled, a tired little thing pulling just as faintly as the crease between his eyebrows. “And you want my opinion on the matter?” Fjord asked, dubious.

“Cor-rect,” she agreed, nodding crisply.

Fjord raised an eyebrow at her, smile turning a little fond. “Or, you just wanted someone to tell you to buy all three?” he pushed gently.

Jester winked at him. “All three? Well, I mean, if you insist Fjord,” she said loudly, as if  _ that’s  _ what Molly and Yasha just a step behind them were straining to overhear. “Maybe I’ll even get one of those gross sour blackberry tart things for you.”

“If it’s gross and sour, why would I want that exactly?”

She rolled her eyes, as if that were obvious. “Because then you can stab it like a _ million times  _ and throw it in a puddle as a  _ sacrifice to Uk’atoa _ ,” she explained, her voice going dramatic as she went into a fighting-ready stance, claws and teeth bared for a moment before popping back up into her regular cheerful self.

Something heavy rolled unpleasantly in Fjord’s stomach. He blinked at her, taken aback. “Uh…” 

“I think he’d like that,” she continued, unperturbed. “Maybe then he’d stay the fuck out of your dreams and you wouldn’t get all like this.” She took another look at him, a little more purposeful than before. “You did have another dream last night, right? Cause you’ve been acting kinda ‒” she see-sawed her hand back and forth in front of her ‒ “ _ weird _ .”

Fjord shivered, an icy cold finger tracing lightly down his spine. It wasn’t even the wind this time. It was the memory of it, haunting him all fucking day. When he’d been with Caleb that afternoon it had been a far too brief respite, at least taking his mind off it, but even then he didn’t want to be thinking about a great fucking overgrown garden snake  _ watching  _ him. Always and everywhere apparently. Caleb was pretty confident in his wards, and Fjord was plenty confident in his abilities, but he doubted they were designed to stand up to pseudo-divine intervention. 

“Jester, I don’t ‒” He sighed, grinding his teeth. “This was different. It was… It was concerning.”

She frowned, throwing a quick look over her shoulder. “Is he angry or something? Did he threaten you or try to hurt you again?” she asked. Her anger wasn’t directed at him. 

“No, no, Jessie, not like that,” he reassured, though he hardly sounded confident even to his own ears. He was sure that how he chewed at the inside of his cheek, wincing, didn’t convince Jester very far either. “At least, I don’t think it was like that.”

His mind went back to the series of visions for the hundredth time, the waters around him turning cold, the sort of freezing he still felt aching in his bones when he’d jolted awake. A cold that he’d not been able to shake all day. But the vision that had played out beneath his eyelids hadn’t been beneath the waves.

His vision had been blurred by fire and smoke, though he didn’t feel in danger of it. He hadn’t even felt the heat, still submerged in the icy depths as he was. And through the flames, dark figures. Little more than shadows darting and flickering. They vanished at times, but they were always coming nearer. Always approaching him. And  _ that _ , that did send his heart racing.

Then at the end of the brief dream ‒ nightmare, message, whatever it was ‒ the sky shattered, shaken by an earth-breaking roar, and though it was wreathed in fire and smoke, he knew it was the sky because the grey-black silhouette of a great hulking dragon larger than Fjord had ever seen or cared to imagine soared overhead, the shadow it case scattering and overwhelming the darting figures beneath.

Then the words,  **Watching** ,  **Watching** , repeated a third time,  **_Watching_ ** , each more insistent, more aggressive than the last but no more helpful.

“I think it’s trying to warn me? In its own way?” Fjord tried to explain the vague feeling that was left turning over and over in his chest, an anxiety Uk’atoa had put there that had yet to recede. Because he had no idea what he was meant to make of it. Was the late great snake deity itself watching him close again for no apparent reason? Was a fuck-off big dragon watching him? Or something? Was Fjord himself meant to be keeping an eye out for it, or something else?

Jester was quiet a moment. “Warn you against something? Warn you of something? Warn you of what?”

Fjord sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I don’t know, Jes. That’s the problem. If it would  _ just  _ ‒”

Whatever frustration he was going to express, grinding his teeth hard as he reached for it, he never quite got there. Molly darted forward, pulling up on Fjord’s other side and tapping his shoulder to get his attention. For whatever reason, he felt Yasha move even closer at their backs.

Molly grinned, small and apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt what I’m hoping is a very productive sharing-fest ‒”

“What do you want, fiend,” Fjord asked, rolling his eyes. His tone lacked any malice or bitterness though. Really at this point it was a term of endearment.

“Aw, I knew you loved me,” Molly said, batting his eyes. “But ah, well Yash and I have been talking, and after our little stop at the donkey-mule and our turn at the apothecary, we’re unfortunately rather certain that tall dark and shady back there is indeed followin’ us.”

Fjord resisted the urge to stop, to look over his shoulder, keeping his pace even and body language consistent. But by Jester’s lack of even a shift in her expression, he got the odd, uncomfortable sense that she was a part of the “we” Molly was talking about. “Run that by me again?” he asked, heart thrumming anxiously against his sternum.

Molly just smiled, sharp-toothed grin a far thing from betraying the cold discomfort in his red eyes. “I said, we’re being followed.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb thumbed absently at the weathered cord caught between his fingers. The pendant to which the cord was attached rested lightly in his palm, the engraved metal cool, dark and unassuming. The leather was worn smooth with age, though remained as supple as the day he’d been given it due to the enchantment embedded within. Despite twelve years of use. Despite how it had lived at the bottom of whichever drawer best suited it for the vast majority of the past four years, since his ascension to Archmage of the Cerberus Assembly. 

Though his memories from that period in which he’d been given it, when he’d graduated, weren’t as clear and orderly as they should have been, clouded by smoke and stained in too much red at times, he was certain that it wasn’t any tampering but rather all that came after which made it feel a lifetime ago. 

Perhaps sixteen years was a lifetime. If not made so by the passage of time itself, then by the erasure of the boy who’d entered the Soltryce Academy under Trent Ikithon’s tutelage when something else entirely, Caleb Widogast, graduated.

The pendant felt heavier in his palm. The metal colder.

Caleb dropped the offending piece of leather and metal on the desk, closing the drawer he’d pulled it from sharply and muttering a word to reactivate the glyph locked within. It didn’t do to dwell on these things. A distraction from his current task.

He retrieved the coiled bit of wire from his components pouch, cutting the rune through the air with lines that glowed faintly and muttering the incantation of the sending spell. He felt the thread of energy tug at the back of his skull as the spell found its mark.

“Beauregard,” he greeted, organizing his words carefully. “I know you are… disapproving, of how I have handled myself of late.” It was a forgiving wording, considering the  _ looks  _ she had been giving him whenever Fjord came up in conversation, or how she had stormed from the room when he’d shown up, or how she had been avoiding him. Though whether this had anything to do with Fjord or had everything to do with her old mentor and the awkward position that put her in, it was impossible to say. Communication was not her strong suit. “But we need to speak.” The  _ about Dairon  _ was heavily implied. “Nott arrived. I can come to you, or you know where to find me.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Caleb considered she may not respond at all. And then he heard her sigh, both deeply annoyed and resigned. He grinned faintly, not sure why he expected anything else. “Alright,” she intoned. “Sure. I’m at the library so, uh, guess you might wanna swing by.”

Caleb breathed a sigh of relief, recasting. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. “I will be there shortly.” That didn’t require much of a response. With a word of acknowledgement from Beauregard, the spell ended.

Caleb rose from his chair, snagging the pendant from the cleared desktop and looping it over his head without giving himself more time to question it. Tucking it under the collar of his robes, despite the unease it conferred given its history,  _ his  _ history, there was still something comforting to the security it provided. Especially now, when the closer he neared to everything coming together, the more certain he was that something would go wrong.

He grabbed his heavy outer cloak from the hook by the door, securing it around his shoulders as he descended the staircase. He made it through the foyer and got so far as getting a hand on the door when Rune cleared his throat behind him from where he stood in the archway leading into the dining room and kitchens beyond it. Entirely too expected to make Caleb flinch in surprise.

“Going out are we, Archmage?” he hummed, flashing Caleb a pleasant smile as he turned to face the guard, leaning casually against the wall.

Caleb exhaled heavily, stopping himself short of rolling his eyes. “I certainly am. Though  _ we  _ certainly do not have to.”

“How generous of you,” Rune remarked, his sarcasm light and agreeable, his grin unshaken as he pushed off the wall, moving back through the manor. He didn’t seem to give Caleb’s offer much thought. “I’ll go holler for the lads. Jorgenson and Kyra just stepped out back.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Winter too cold for you here, Rune?”

The Marquesian just grinned all the more sharply. “Ah, unfortunately I am on house sitting duty this evening. Not wizard sitting duty.” 

Caleb huffed at that, lips curling in amusement. “How fortunate of you.” He inclined his head, motioning him along. “Go fetch them, then.”

Rune turned and took a step to do so, but paused, turning back over his shoulder to give Caleb a sharp look. “And you will stay put until I do, yes? Because the Lieutenant will have my hide if you go vanishing. You know he will,” he said, shaking a finger at him.

Caleb did roll his eyes that time. “Yes, yes, I will wait.”

Only a few moments later he was joined by two more Righteous Brand soldiers, heavy cloaks over their armor already dusted in the snow that had just begun falling anew outside. Tugging his gloves on and pulling his hood up, Caleb was flanked on either side as he set off through the faintly howling wind and tumbling snow up the street.

He made it as far as the top of the street when Caleb stopped dead in his tracks, the familiar ringing in his ears of an arcane alarm. His guards faltered, glancing at one another and then at Caleb as they shifted back a step to where he stopped. 

“Is there a problem, Archmage?” one of them asked, the elven woman, Kyra.

“Would there be any reason,” he asked, his tone low and words slow with the weight of his own certainty already to the contrary, “for someone to be moving through one of the ground floor windows at this moment?”

By how both she and her compatriot stiffened, hands already crawling toward their respective sheathed longswords, he reckoned not. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord took a shallow breath, holding it and glancing between Molly and Jester. “Alright, what have I missed exactly?”

“It’s okay, Captain,” Jester assured cheerily. “We’ve got your back. Especially when you’re all out of sorts.”

That did nothing to still the sudden spike in his pulse. “And?”

“At the forge a couple blocks back,” Yasha jumped in, speaking low and evenly. “Jester noticed somebody with a hood and heavy cloak trailing after us.”

“Not looking in any shop windows, not talking to any vendors,” Jester elaborated. “Kind of felt like they were watching us.” Her brow furrowed slightly, nervous. “To be fair though, they seem really good Fjord. Very hard to spot. It’s just, the Traveller gives me a feeling for these things, you know?”

“Lost sight of what’s-the-fuck when we stopped for a minute at the cart in the road,” Molly added, throwing a jaunty arm over Fjord’s shoulder with a wide grin that didn’t at all match the tone of the current conversation. No need to tip off a stalker that they knew they were being stalked, if that’s indeed what was going on. “That said, Yasha caught a glimpse again a block later, still the same distance from us, meaning they stopped too. And then they took the same turn we did at the apothecary. So what exactly are we supposed to think, hm?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Fjord cursed darkly under his breath. This was just what he needed. “Anyone got eyes now?” he asked as they continued their walk forward, not daring to caste a look around himself.

“Opposite side of the road,” Yasha intoned.

Fjord half turned to look at her behind them as she spoke, taking the opportunity to pay close attention to his periphery. “That so?”

She nodded, eyes steely and fixed ahead, her hands closed into fists. She no doubt would rather have had one on the hilt of the greatsword that peeked through the dense furs over her shoulder. “Yes. Lost them between the horses hitched outside the mail post there and the tavern.”

Fjord saw the shadow of the alley between them, partially obstructed by a pair of draft horses, as he about-faced again. He cleared his throat, mind racing. “Ah, Jester, do you have sending prepared today?” She nodded. “Can you send Caleb a message?”

Jester’s eyebrows went up, her whole body wiggling in excitement despite their situation as she gave him an  _ interested  _ look. “Oh really Fjord? You want me to send Cay-leb a message? Sure sure sure, I can do that, what do you want me to say?” she asked coyly.

“Cool it Jester,” Molly spoke up, grinning wolfishly. “This is clearly no time to get all excited about the Captain’s new boy toy.”

Fjord rolled his eyes. “Hilarious. If we’re being followed, it’s probably at least in part because of him, and he should know. And if something happens, he’s our get out of jail free card. Idiots,” he grumbled, too cold to be flustered.

Molly arched an eyebrow. “Interesting how certain you are of that.”

Fjord was saved from having to respond to that when Jester cleared her throat, wiggling her fingers and reaching for her Traveller’s symbol. “ _ Hey Cay-leb _ ,” she began, and Molly sniggered, while Fjord just rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw hard to keep from groaning, but really he didn’t know what he expected. “It’s Jester. Little problem Fjord wants you to know… about…”

Jester stopped, frowning. Her gaze flitted to Fjord’s, a look a deep concern welling up in her eyes. Molly stopped grinning.

“Jes?” Fjord reached out automatically, hand resting at her elbow lightly, his other hand curling tight to keep from summoning the falchion right there and then. “Why’d you stop? What’s wrong?”

“Um, I don’t ‒ I’m sorry Fjord,” she said quietly, biting her lip, eyes running away over his shoulder. “I don’t know why, I  _ used  _ the spell, but it’s just not…  _ finding him _ ,” she tried to explain, mouth opening and closing. “There could be plenty of reasons though probably, like, like ‒”

Fjord’s heart was racing. At this point he wasn’t even paying attention to where they were walking, just kept putting one foot after the other, each step a struggle to remain outwardly calm and unawares so as not to spook their tail.

“He could be on a different plane?” Yasha offered, though even by her own tone it seemed unlikely at best. 

“Or just in a place that’s shielded, that the Traveller can’t find him?” Molly offered.

“Sure, right,” Fjord agreed absently, heart in his throat. “That’s fine. We don’t, ah, we don’t ‒”

There was a beat, then he felt Yasha’s hand on his shoulder, grip solid and grounding. He stopped walking altogether, turning to look up at her mismatched eyes, not a trace of the very real doubt or desperation that threatened to crawl up through his own nightmares and anxieties into his voice, stripped bare of borrowed confidence in that moment. “What do you want to do, Captain?”

Fjord took a breath, looking between Yasha, Molly, and Jester. “I think we need to have a conversation. Alive’s better than dead,” he decided. 

“Don’t know what we don’t know ‘til we know it,” Molly agreed, hands already creeping under his coat to where the scimitars hung at his sides. “Got it.”

Fjord’s eyes darted between his crew and the options and resources available to them. Eventually his gaze settled on a small hole-in-the-wall tavern with an alley running along one side, an idea beginning to take shape. “You remember the Kraken’s Corner? The tavern in Darktow?”

“Before or  _ after  _ it burned down,” Jester asked, dubious.

“Before,” Fjord said. “Remember what happened with Allison?”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Molly winced, inhale hissing through his teeth. “I’m not looking to get arrested here, Fjord. No matter how much pull your boy has with the guards.”

“We do this right,” Fjord said, low and careful. “No one’s getting arrested.”

Jester sighed, both saddened and resigned. “I think this means I  _ won’t  _ be getting any pastries.”

Fjord shook his head, smiling sympathetically. “Probably not even the gross sour ones.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb’s mind raced.

“Not any good reasons I can think of,” Jorgenson intoned, the man glancing back toward the manor.

“That is what I presu ‒  _ scheisse _ ,” he sighed, interrupted by a second alarm in the back of his mind even as he dismissed the first, this one’s tone set to the windows of the second floor. He turned to the woman at his side. “Kyra, go quickly to the Cobalt Archive. Bring Beauregard.” 

Without waiting for an affirmation or elaborating on the change of plan further, Caleb reached out and grabbed Jorgenson by the shoulder before pulling them both through the deep purple haze of a dimension door with a muttered arcane word. They reappeared immediately in the foyer they had departed only a few minutes ago, empty. 

“Archmage what is going o‒” 

Caleb cut him off with a sharp look that begot no arguments. “Search this floor. Find Rune. Make sure everything is in its place.  _ Quietly _ ,” he ordered, tone cold. With a nod and the sharp slither of steel as his longsword appeared in hand, the guard turned and did as he was bid.

Caleb unfasted his cloak, letting it drop and crumple at his feet at the base of the staircase silently. He paused, straining to listen for a moment. He heard nothing, excluding the cautious footsteps of the guard moving through the hallway at his right. The lights of the second story hallway at the top of the staircase were dark, just as he’d left them. Nothing off. Nothing amiss. No more alarms. 

Yet his instincts warned  _ danger _ . 

His fingers brushed the leather cord of the pendant around his neck, barely more than mouthing the words as the mage armor burst forth around him, an electric blue dancing just an inch off the surface of his skin and clothing before fading from sight. 

His first step up the creaking staircase, and Caleb was twisting the silver ring around his finger, mumbling an activation word. Unlike his own casting, with the spark of energy beneath his skin and the pull at the base of his skull, the only indication that the spell had taken effect was when the world around him deadened into absolute silence.

It was an odd sensation, to not even hear one’s own heartbeat in their ears but to feel it racing beneath the skin. Another moment though, another few steps, and he was halfway up the staircase and out of the bright light of the entryway. Another, and more of the hallway above came into view, several doors either closed or open just as he’d left them. Another step, another, and even the rapid pace of his heart faded to a slow sure beat. 

The cold, abject alertness that settled over his mind as he crested the stairs was just as old and familiar as the cool metal of the pendant against his chest. Slowly, he allowed himself to slip back into a headspace he kept locked away in the back of his mind, never hidden long enough to gather dust. 

He watched both ends of the hallway, allowing five seconds, six seconds to pass. No one. No further alarms. No sign of anything awry. Yet  _ wrong _ .

He turned, eyes alert for any movement, gliding silently down the left side of the hall. His hand hovered just over his component pouch, the weight of his spellbook tucked against his side a reassuring one as he mentally sorted through the incantations he kept prepared. Some of them useful. Some of them useful to deadly effect.

He stopped outside the door to the study, where anything of the sort of value he cared most to protect was found. Where any intruder who knew  _ where  _ they trespassing would look first.

He placed his hand against the wood, tracing a sigil, and the lock turned, still engulfed in silence. Standing back and to the side a few steps, with a flick he sent a mage hand forward to turn the handle, pulling the door open inch by silent inch until it stood open wide, revealing the darkened study within in the same organized disarray just as he’d left it. 

Almost, as he’d left it.

Through the last dim light of the setting sun that filtered through the windows, a darkly shrouded figure moved behind his desk. They crouched, hood obscuring their features, fingers nimbly shifting through the documents and ledgers he’d left sitting atop the surface for a glance before expertly nudging them back into place. Taking nothing. They shifted fluidly through the dark, unaware of him standing, watching wreathed in silence in the open doorway, and ducked down to the drawers beneath. 

Caleb stood to his full height, shoulders drawn back and hands disarmingly loose at his sides. He  _ felt  _ the cold apathy that crept into his eyes, into his blood. Felt the calm violence it brought with it. Gave himself to it, a precise anger seething under the surface. Muscle memory guiding his steps now, he entered just within the room, closing the door behind him.

Another twist of the ring, and the silence dropped.

It was instinct ‒ ingrained through nearly two decades of reaching for the flames that sprang to life at his fingertips ‒ to tug at the burning thread through his core, arcane heat and flame beneath his skin threatening to spill over to the surface but for the will to keep it contained. And so it was instinct too relaxing that will, more than it was the hissed word and slide of phosphorus between his fingers that had liquid flame bursting to life as it had a thousand times before, a signature from afar across fields of battle and dueling grounds, a searing, brilliant mantle rolling down over his shoulders. The fire shield spell clung to him, casting light and shadows through the room, a burning cloak following his movement as the door at his back groaned with the heat and the carpet blackened where he tread. 

The light had his unexpected visitor’s head jerking up, barely revealing a snarling mouth and tanned skin, hands vanishing into the dark folds of their cloak.

“If you are going to open those,” Caleb intoned, each syllable sharp, voice low and dangerously calm. 

Another slow step forward. His friend mirrored, shifting back.

He was not entirely pleased with the titles that spun a reputation around his name. Firebringer. Dragon of Talonstadt. He, the devil who summoned hellfire to the fields of Valthyr and Scorsguard and Urzin. Not entirely pleased with the rumors and talk that soaked his reputation red. But at a certain point, once the horror subsided, it merely became an expectation. 

And he had a visitor. 

And it would simply be discourteous to deliver anything  _ but  _ full expectations.

“I suggest you stand about fifteen feet back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been warned y'all are gonna scream so do it in the comments


	16. dark skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how bout that four week accidental hiatus huh
> 
> note the tags

 

Caleb was already lifting his arm, his lips already forming the words when the figure’s hand reappeared in an instant from the hidden recesses of their cloak with a flash of steel, sharp metal gleaming deadly in the fire light. They whipped the dagger forward, cutting an arc through the air toward Caleb’s chest, a path only interrupted by the glow of the arcane shield manifesting before him, blade skittering off to the side with a burst of blue sparks to embed itself in the wall. 

But then they were moving, and _quickly_ , dark form vaulting over the desk with a shower of loose documents, nearly making it to the window they likely came through. _Nearly._

He stepped forward, flames snapping and hissing around him with a life of their own, coalescing with the energy of the spell that echoed in his barked command and hummed beneath his skin as he clenched his outstretched hand. The figure stuttered when the hold person spell took effect, their hand clawing desperate at the window ledge as their fluid movement faltering mid stride. Their every muscle locking in place, Caleb felt them strain against the iron bands of the spell, felt the taut thread pulse and tense at the base of his skull, but to no avail.

With each slow, deliberate step forward, winding carefully around the furniture, air dry and crackling with flame around him, his hold on the individual encased before him grew firm and steadied with the force of his undivided concentration. 

Caleb stopped mere feet away at their side. Close enough that the flames licked angrily in their direction. Close enough to hear their breath hiss between clenched teeth as the heat swelled intense enough to burn but for heavy layers of fabric and dark grey leather armor. 

“To what,” Caleb asked, his own voice lilting cold and foreign in his ears, sharp grin even colder, “do I owe the pleasure?” With one smooth gesture he reached out, grasping the thick fabric of their hood and yanking it back to tug sharply at their throat, at _the man’s_ throat, tendons and veins strained against dark scarred skin, against the confines of the spell. Dark blonde hair was tied back in a tight braid and knotted at the back of his head. He had sharp elven features, but was otherwise unextraordinary. A forgettable face. 

Caleb did not forget faces though. And he did not recognize this one, which was far more concerning than if he had.

“Not the monk I was expecting…” he murmured. Not Dairon, the only individual perhaps brash and motivated enough to try what this man was apparently attempting. Dairon, who his mind leapt to when first greeted with the sight before him. Caleb’s head tilted to the side with interest as he turned the man’s face toward him with a none too gentle wrench of his jaw. He felt nothing, analyzing the venom in the man’s eyes, calculating the sharp fear beneath it. Nothing but a touch of curiosity perhaps, his interest piqued enough to bleed through the wall of ice and steel he shielded himself behind.

Wide brown eyes followed the movement of Caleb’s hand as his fingers dipped within the pouch at his belt, coming away slick with a drop of sweet oil. Smiling tightly as he brushed it over his lip, weaving the spell, Caleb slowly eased the binds of hold person as a new thread of energy wove itself together in the back of his mind, catching and pulling tight. “I _suggest_ ,” he murmured, each syllable curling honey-sweet and deadly around a predatory grin, “you hold still, behave yourself, and answer my questions truthfully.”

There was a moment of resistance, of panic, but gently _tsking_ his efforts, Caleb only waited a moment more as, inevitably, the half-elf’s eyes glazed over with the enchantment. The binds of hold person dropped altogether as he shifted his concentration, and Caleb took a step back, enough space between them that his new friend was spared the burning waves of heat that radiated from him, gentling the flames that drifted from his shoulders to a low simmer, the immediate threat passed.

Panting, the man’s expression twisted, conflicted, looking at Caleb with caution and worry. He leaned a fraction away even as the tension in his shoulders relaxed and his arms settled at ease at his sides, hands in plain view.

“What is your name?” Caleb asked, studying his face, his armor, the hint of engraved design at his belt buckle and the hilt of the blade at his side, committing every detail to memory.

There was a hesitation, resistance pulling at the enchantment’s web of interwoven fibers, but it was too little, too late. “Merik,” he said, quiet and dazed. “My name’s Merik, Sir.”

Caleb huffed a short breath, amused, an odd quirk tugging at his mouth and brow at the formality. He slowly circled around the man, still rooted in place as the suggestion required. “No last name, Merik?”

A shallow breath. Tension briefly in the pull of his shoulders beneath the worn leather. But only for a moment. “No, no last name. I’m sorry…” his words died a quiet murmur, expression turning confused again, his reason itself at war with the encouragement of the enchantment. 

Unhelpful.

Caleb frowned. “Seems to be popular these days with the criminal element,” he muttered to himself, Merik’s expression only going tighter, more perplexed. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t, I ‒” 

Caleb hushed him, turning back toward his desk to determine what had been touched or taken. “None of that now. Who sent ‒” Metal crashing against metal and wood splintering interrupted him abruptly, echoing distantly from down stairs. Caleb’s head snapped back to the doorway, reaching instinctively for his components pouch. His mouth contorted in displeasure, whirling back on the man as the mantle of fire pouring off his shoulders swelled threateningly. “Did you bring _friends_ , Merik?” he snarled, turning back to the open door and dark gaping hallway beyond.

 _Open_ door? 

The millisecond Caleb had left to twist out of the way of the dual flash of sharpened steel spinning through the air, the barest moment he had to try to bring his hand up with an arcane shield, was not enough. 

The first dagger he barely shied away from, metal cutting a deep groove across the side of his neck, sticky warmth pooling down to his collar. That white hot pain, however, was far overshadowed and forgotten as the air rushed from his lungs with the force of its twin dagger slamming into his chest, blade burying itself neatly between his ribs. Farther than it should have. Burning sharper, hotter, just _burning_ , an acrid bloom in his chest with an agony that pulsed in his veins. 

There should have been panic, perhaps. Or fear. Shock, maybe. But there was only the cold and distant observation that _that_ was not a good sign. And there was something hotter beneath. _Anger_.

He did not have _time_ for this.

Caleb stumbled back against the wall, swearing vehemently as a feral snarl pulled at his lips. His eyes, searching, landed on the second cloaked figure, similarly obscured by dark hood and leather armor, darting forward from the corner of the room where they had not been a moment before. 

He watched, gingerly pulling the dagger from his side, his vision a haze of black around the edges as whatever toxin had coated the blade raced through his veins, throbbing and burning with each stutter of his heart. Saw the flash of metal as newcomer worked the first blade where it had embedded in the plaster. Distress only fed the flames roaring up protectively around him. But it was the pain that washed away the red haze of recalcitrant anger, that sharpened his focus; _a tool_ , _the pain only ever a tool to be harnessed_ , Ikithon’s voice echoed. He breathed through it as he had learned, but in that moment that clarity had slipped, it was too late. 

Merik screamed as the fire surged. Both the man and the wall at his back peeled. Blackened. Burned. Caleb felt his grasp on the spell had slipped, enchantment fading as its subject panicked and the thread of concentration withered in the heat of the poison coursing through him.

The inferno wrapped protectively around him did little to dissuade the desperation and rage of a man ‒ mind and limbs only just freed from his influence ‒ to retaliate when he perceived himself in possession of the upper hand. Caleb stumbled and threw up an arm, arcane shield sputtering to life again as the only barrier to stop his first problem, no longer so docile, from plunging another blade into Caleb’s chest. 

Even as the man’s empty hand managed to grab at Caleb’s robes, fingers twisting into the blood-dampened fabric of his collar, steel scraping against sparking raw energy with the other, with more strength than Caleb expected, he found himself dragged and slammed bodily into his desk. It shrieked against the floorboards as it moved with him, wood cracking, or perhaps that was a rib or two. However even as he did, the flame shield surged forward, lashing at his assailant’s arms, chest and face, sending him screaming back, giving Caleb the distance he needed even as the second figure darted back into view.

Rolling off the desk, the taste of iron pungent on his tongue, Caleb righted himself to a knee on the smouldering floorboards and lifted a hand, each syllable imparting a curse, twisting and harsh as he located both of his enemies in the wrecked and burning study before him. Words echoing with a rumble, he tasted ozone in the humming air. Saw the panic widen both men’s eyes, faces illuminated by the sheer proximity of the flames. _Felt_ energy pool beneath his skin, swelling and tensing until with the last breathless word it ripped through him, crackling and snapping across the space between his fingers ‒ steady, they did not shake anymore. All in a split second before chain lightning split the air with a deafening crack and haze of blinding purple-blue light.

The two bolts lanced forward from his fingers, shattering across the surface of both men, sinking through their jerking and burning flesh before being drawn through the floor at their heels, black scorch marks radiating across the wood. His first assailant, desperately beating at the flames that crawled up his body, screamed, jerking and twitching harshly as electricity ripped through his chest. With a terrible gurgle he collapsed, silent and still. His compatriot, scorched and ashen, seized and collapsed similarly. Yet, groaning, the man forced himself up from the ground where he fell, fingers curling tight around the hilt in his hand.

Still attempting to steady himself on his feet again, Caleb watched the man’s head turn between the door, arcane flames racing up the wall, across the carpet, over the surface of the table, over so many maps and books and documents that covered it, all between him and the open hallway. Though the smoke began to gather and the heat turned painful, Caleb willed the flames hotter, the protective buffer between himself and the fire which warped around him making it manageable. Better it all burn than any scrap of it leave in the wrong hands. 

The man’s head then swivelled back toward the desk and the windows adjacent, and toward Caleb himself, standing in the way. He had barely pushed through the blinding pain in his chest to get to his feet, blinking through the burning haze of smoke when the rogue went darting past, weapon in hand but seemingly no intent to use it as escape became his apparent course of action. Unacceptable.

His figure dashing too quickly through the smoke, movement and form obscured by the flicker of shadow and orange light through the haze, Caleb threw out a hand, his aim a hasty estimate at best, dust drifting from his fingers as the sickly green light radiated through the room. But the ray required distance, and his vision was half obscured. Just as the disintegrate spell burst forth from his palm, the thief appeared too close, too suddenly, the full weight of his body behind the knee that slammed into Caleb’s midriff, sending them both tumbling through smoke and fire.

It _burned_ , though in a way he was accustomed to, controlling the flames. Not as much as it would have without the flame shield cloaking him. Not as much as the slash of serrated steel across his ribs, mage armor only proving effective with the second attempt, swung wider, more haphazard than the first as they careened into the side of the desk and, with the attack, his shield burst to life again, flames consuming his attacker with a wretched scream.

They did not learn. _They merely react_ , the cold voice, Ikithon’s voice, instructed as Caleb nearly slipped through the dark and smoke to another place and time entirely. _That is the difference between us, and them. You_ think _, boy._ _Now, again._

Caleb hissed in disgust as the ghastly green bolt of energy went awry, the corner of the desk and a portion of the wall and window beyond it shattered and dispersed in a cloud of dust. He growled in pain, in frustration at the expanded spell. Panic fluttered beneath his sternum, swelling behind his ribs as he grappled with the weight on top of him, a tangle of limbs and bruised bones and seeping blood, his wounds burning acrid. Panic, as he was overwhelmed with the screams and smell of burning flesh.

But the brutal cold clarity that filtered his thoughts and guided his actions sank its claws into the fragile thing and crushed it. As his training instructed. As success and survival, one and the same, required. Safe from the dangers of when instinct led and fear presided. 

His lungs burned, either with the dry heat and smoke churning up toward the rafters or his inability to drag any air into his chest. Pulling himself free of the man now swearing and flailing on the ground, ripping off his cloak to put out the flames that threatened to consume him, with the roar of fire and the distance sound of conflict ringing in his ears, Caleb reached for the lowest drawer of the desk.

The lock, like much of the wood, was ash on the ground. The glyph within though, untouched. Pain and anger contorting his face, Caleb snarled, teeth bared, face twisted into a grin disdainful and vindictive as he met the gaze of the man on the ground adjacent him for the barest moment. 

Not reckless. Calculated.

Caleb braced for pain, let the certainty of it wash over him. Steady. Frigid. A tool to be harnessed. Nothing more. His master stood over him through the smoke and flame. Watching. Disappointed. There was some dark and wretched part of Caleb, buried away, curling now around his heart, that was thrilled with the look of fear and realization that rippled  across the man’s face as he struggled to his knees, hood burned and torn away. Some dark and wretched part that Ikithon had put there.

 _Why do you hesitate, boy? Finish it_ , he insisted. _Now_.

Without the word of dismissal, Caleb ripped the drawer open, triggering the trap he had laid there himself.

The glyph radiated red light from within the open compartment, a pulse of energy rippling through the air. 

Heat surged.

And the study, already burning, exploded into flame.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fjord shuddered as he came out of the cold, or out of the wind at least, not finding the interior of the small tavern much warmer. Making a path for Jester at his heels, he shouldered through the dense huddle of folks simultaneously trying to get out the door. Tattered hoods and thick layers pulled close made one half-concealed, grime-covered face indistinguishable from the next, wind-battered patrons just looking for a bit of respite from the elements. 

It was a hole-in-the-wall of a tavern, no inn upstairs, no upstairs at all actually, barely qualifying as four walls, ceiling and floor. But there was a roaring hearth set in the back that looked warm enough, provided you could break through the wall of a half dozen or so people crowded so close around it he could smell the singed fur and fabric from their coats. For those who couldn’t, there was always the bar and enough cheap alcohol lining the wall behind it to bring some feeling back to your face.

Not that they were there for any of that.

Fjord tugged his hood down, glancing behind him again to make sure Jester was still there ‒ unnecessary perhaps, but he already didn’t like that Yasha and Molly had split off, so he was damn well going to make sure Jester didn’t leave his sight. She flashed him a tight little smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She tried, but underneath that she looked just about as anxious as Fjord felt. 

There was too much they didn’t know. Too much in this roughshod plan of theirs ‒ of _his_ , because when it went belly up no one but himself would be to blame ‒ that was left up to luck. And gods only knew that _her_ favor was just about as predictable as spring storms and lasted just as long. On top of all of that, there was the heavy stone sinking lower and lower in his gut; that knot of anxiety, accompanied by the insistent voice that, out of instinct more than reason, told him he _needed to get to Caleb, needed to find Caleb, needed to make sure that Caleb is safe._

Because something about this was _wrong_. It was all wrong. 

“Fjord?” Jester asked, quiet and confused probably as to why he’d stopped in the middle of the tavern. 

He cleared his throat, glancing around to gather his bearings and shake the urge to ignore their shadow and just herd everyone he gave a copper about in this city back to some place safe. Gods knew he could count all of them on one hand. “Come on.” He indicated toward the fire in the back with a nod, motioning for Jester to follow.

Gods knew that would be easier if they just regathered. Safer. They were _his_ people, weren’t they? Was it so bad that he wanted to see them safe? And the only way he could _know_ they were safe is if he actually saw them. All of them. But that would mean passing up on the opportunity to figure out who this was, and _why_. And he needed to know. 

It would mean ignoring the threat, rather than doing anything about it. 

He stopped at the bar, the frail wisp of a man tending it glancing up from the glass he was polishing with a filthy rag, face blanching stark white at what must have been a hell of a look on Fjord’s face. Fjord mutely slapped a gold down on the wood, sliding it across. “Just here for the fire,” he grunted, not waiting for a reply before turning away, taking Jester by the elbow and shepherding her through the scattering of tables and patrons toward the warm glow of the hearth.

Her eyebrows went up in surprise but she hurried along in step, giving him a pointed look. “Fjord, you’re going to break your teeth like that,” Jester hissed, elbowing his side to steal his attention back again. 

Fjord grunted a noncommittal reply, making no effort to loosen the clench of his jaw as he led them to a vacant table in the back that had been pulled and abandoned closer to the warm radius of the fire. He glared across the room at the door, shaking on its rusted hinges with each gust of wind. Glared at anyone that so much as seemed to think about looking in their direction.

Jester dropped heavily into the seat across from him. “You’re making the angry sound, Fjord,” she chided, leaning forward and darting her hand out from beneath her cloak to poke her finger at Fjord’s sternum. He flinched, moving to smack her hand away, but she had already withdrawn it. “Why are you making the angry sound?”

It was only after she commented on it that he noticed the growl-like reverberation in his chest, something deeply displeased and uncomfortable. He took a quick breath, making an effort to quiet it. “Maybe because I’m not exactly thrilled with the situation, Jester,” he guessed, keeping his voice low. He shifted his scowl to her for only the briefest second before he looked away, adjusting his seat to keep an eye on both the front door and the one in the back leading to what he presumed to be a kitchen or stock room and the door to the secluded alley they’d gotten a glimpse at out back.

Jester only sighed, slumping bored in her chair. “What are you angry at?” she asked, propping her cheek on her palm, elbow on the table. Her tone was too carefully neutral to betray what she was getting at.

“Everything,” he grit out, hands balled into fists in his lap, claws digging into his palms hard enough to hurt. “Myself. Everything.” That was as articulate of an answer as she was getting that moment. Every fiber of him was tense and jumpy all at once, his skin stretched too thin.

Jester, to her merit, let whatever the thought was go. “Okay.” Curling in slightly on herself, she wrapped her outer cloak around her shoulders a little tighter, burrowing down to absorb whatever warmth she could in the short while they would be there.

Fjord took a deep breath, trying to get his head back in the right place. His crew needed him to be thinking straight. To have their backs. “Okay?” he asked. “That’s it?”

She nodded, giving him another one of those smiles that barely stretched wide enough to cover the anxiety burning a hole in her. “Okay,” she reassured. Jester fell quiet, though he was sure he hadn’t heard the last of it.

Thankfully, it wasn’t more than ten minutes of waiting and watching the slow trickle of poor bastards in and out before the front door opened with a rattle, a small cluster of thickly cloaked silhouettes against the backdrop of snow and ice outside crowding inside the dimly lit interior. Fjord and Jester both made a good show of not paying attention, while Jester watched from the corner of her eyes, giving Fjord a nearly imperceptible nod as the group settled ‒ three human men shucking gloves and hoods, grumbling loudly in complaint about something as they commandeered a table, and a fourth figure keeping their hood up that slinked along just close enough to seem a part of their group before sliding into a table adjacent. 

Fjord took a deep breath, eyes fixed down on the table. He looked up at her, eyebrows raised with a question.

She nodded, her fingers worrying away at the hem of her cloak before drifting to her Traveller’s symbol.

“Right.” Fjord forced himself to sit another fifteen seconds, counting them out in his head before he rose slowly from his seat, giving Jester a nod. “Someplace a little quieter, maybe,” he suggested.

Jester grinned, sharp and just a little chaotic around the edges as she bounced up to her feet. Another few steps and they’d slipped through the back door, ignoring the perplexed look of the young woman peeling vegetables in the back as they shoved through the next door and spilled into the alley. The wind bit fiercely as they reemerged outside, the cold covering how it reeked of sewage and rot blessedly covered in mostly undisturbed snow.

He went through the motions, urging Jester to walk in front of him as they turned their backs to the wind, cutting left down the alley, all the way to the end and stopping just around the corner. Backs pressed against the wall, cold setting into their bones again, they waited. Silent. Trusting Molly and Yasha to be ready. Listening closely for the rattle and screech of the door around the wind. 

He didn’t hear it though. And ultimately, impatience winning out in the war against his fraying nerves, it took glancing once around the corner after a few too many minutes wore by to catch sight of the same cloaked figure from before, picking their way through the shadows along the exterior wall of the tavern parallel their footprints in the snow.

He jerked away, out of sight, reaching out blindly to tap Jester’s shoulder twice. She caught his wrist, squeezing for a moment before dropping it, a quiet reassurance. Fjord’s breath was frozen in his lungs, his heart pounding sure and quick against his ribcage. It took everything in him to wait, to be quiet and still for just a moment more, to give Molly distance.

Though he did. Wait.

Until Jester’s cold fingers found his wrist again, tapping twice. A black glare fixed in place, fingers at his side twitching, Fjord took a step out into the open mouth of the alley. And another, jaw tight, tail of his coat snapping in the wind, tensing his grip around the falchion summoned with a spray of ice flecks to his hand, as he turned to glare down the alley directly at their quarry.

Jester stepped out behind him, Traveller’s symbol in hand. As the figure turned sharply on their heel, looking over their shoulder, they were met by Yasha’s imposing silhouette, great sword drawn, blocking the other end of the alley and closing the distance at a terrifyingly unhurried rate. And from above the door to the kitchens they had exited, a thick shower of snow collapsing from the roof as Molly slid down from his perch above, landing lightly to block the only remaining exit, his coat dusted with snow, scimitars twirling in hand, and a sharp smirk on his face.

Spinning back to Fjord and Jester, the figure stayed crouched, though whether ready to bolt or to attack he couldn’t tell. Either would end poorly. Even getting his first proper look at them, it was still impossible to see much detail beneath their dark cloak and the shadow of their hood that left only the bottom of their face visible, contorted in a sharp-toothed sneer. Dark skin, dark battered leather armor, tall and lithe humanoid figure. The hilt of a blade at their belt, peeking out from the folds of their cloak. And once he caught that, his gaze dropped to the person’s hands and stayed there, eldritch energy welling up almost unbidden to his palm.

Fjord took another step forward, deep contempt written across his face. His voice as cold as the wind that carried it crossed the short space between them. “Care to introduce yourself?”

A moment. No response.

That was when, with a dark blur of movement, and a flash of steel, Jester’s spectral lollipop burst into existence with a radiant flare.

And Fjord was moving. Reacting. The angry heat thrumming in his veins thawing his  cold-numbed muscles. Instinct throwing him forward.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was only how quickly he threw himself himself aside to put the body of the desk between the central point of the blast and himself, pressing himself flat against the floorboards, that saved Caleb from the worst of the wave of fire and energy rippling outward. The deadly force of the blast shredded the desk and destroyed its contents, incinerated by design. 

The explosion roared. Windows shattered. Wood splintered. And Caleb heard none of it, his ears ringing painfully with the cacophonous eruption before fading, muted as if from under water, replaced by a terrifying deafened silence.

He sucked in a burning breath, his lungs and throat protesting loudly right along with his ribs and still-bleeding side, the air choked with smoke and heat. Caleb forced himself to move, to crawl shakily to his feet using the toppled chair for support, balance shot and vision swimming. And he _hurt_ , bones aching, wounds throbbing, exposed skin of his forearms and from his collar up the right side of his neck blistered and burned, still pulsing with stabbing heat with each heartbeat. But he avoided most of the explosion, and even then, the protective blanket of arcane flames rippling over him flared and expanded to absorb the brunt of it before simmering back down to a flickering cloak over his shoulders.

With a wave of his hand the flames of the burning room parted before him as he stumbled out into the hallway, only now beginning to warp and blacken with heat. He forced his eyes away, couldn’t let them linger on the unmoving bodies as he went, fire swarming across their armor and clothing, gradually consuming them. 

He gave himself ten seconds, braced against the banister at the top of the staircase, sucking in the cooler air, eyes flicking between every direction for movement, but there was nothing. Caleb winced, working his jaw to try to bring sound back into his ears, straining to hear anything other than dull ringing. But still he heard nothing. The panic was a slow spiral; a darkness at the edge of his vision; a numbness that settled over his skin. To a hissing mantra of _useless_ , _useless_ , in the back of his skull, Caleb’s whole body shuddered. His fingers felt heavy and as he fumbled for a healing potion, loose and forgotten somewhere among all his meticulously catalogued spell components in the interdimensional space at the bottom of the pouch at his side. Bitter herbs tasted like ash, though a moment later his ears popped painfully. That sound came rushing back in a painful collision was reassuring, though what he heard downstairs was not.

Crashing. Shouting. Running footsteps. A door thrown open, slamming against a wall. Then silence.

The worst pain from his burns and scrapes fading, with one more deep steadying breath, Caleb brutally shoved down the frustration and fear, the desire to simply teleport himself away, and took a step toward the staircase. He shoved down the racing questions and theories of what was happening, who they were, what they were after, who sent them. Shoved down the voice at the back of his mind, _his own_ voice, not Ikithon’s or Astrid’s or anyone else’s, worrying over where else, _who_ else, they may be after. A distraction he could not afford. He shoved it down, locked it away behind frozen walls. Alert. Focused. Forward.

Caleb moved as if through a dream, the pain dulled by distance, the worrying and _thinking_ relegated to a negligible clamoring at the back of his mind. 

He moved toward the sound, down the stairs. Channeled more energy into the flames licking around him, trailing after him as he walked. There were intruders. Thieves or assassins, it did not matter. A threat to the Empire all the same.

Caleb moved as if through a dream, one he’d had many times before. The setting was different but the story was very much the same. Phosphorus stained his fingers. Fire rolled over his shoulders. Smoke burned his throat. But still he felt cold. He felt nothing.

The stairs creaked under foot. And around the corner, down the hall, blood. So much blood, its unbroken crimson surface a dark mirror for the flames. Red pooled around crumpled corpses. Metal armor. Leather armor. _Corpses mean nothing, boy. Let them be._

He moved, a shade through a dream. His gaze drifted for a moment past a still form, past another, past still open eyes, a recognizable half-elven face unrecognizable behind the grey sheen of death. 

 _You have seen a corpse before, Bren_. 

Lain out on palid stone. Rendered across the ground. Ashes trod into the dirt. 

_Yes._

He felt nothing.

_Let them be._

Not a dream. A memory.  

A threat to the Empire. 

Fire danced at his fingers.

He felt nothing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He hadn’t expected them, whoever the person was, to run. Not like that. Not without a word. Not after all the trouble whoever they were had gone to in order to get close to them.

He’d expected the blade that came arching through the air, yes. Fight in one festering back alley after dusk and you’ve fought in them all. He’d seen it coming from far enough away that, adrenaline and instincts roaring through his veins, sheer muscle memory had him sidestepping it nearly completely. Nearly. What might have nicked him then, the falchion in his hand ‒ almost seemingly by its own accord ‒ came up to block, sending the dagger skidding off with a shriek of sparks to land somewhere in the snow out of sight.

Fjord had even expected the shortsword that emerged from the figure’s cloak, spun around in Molly’s direction as the tiefling lunged forward. With a fanged snarl twisting harshly around an Infernal curse and a deep crimson line blooming across the outside of his thigh, Molly dragged one scimitar through his own clothing and skin on its way up to parry the blade. Jagged ice crystals crawled along the spine of the scimitar with an eerie glow. Electric blue and bright enough for one sick pulse to cast a shadow across Molly’s face as he winced, hissing first in pain and surprise, then outrage as the shortsword doubled back with a twist to cut deep across his forearm. 

The still-obscured figure danced around Molly, ducking an angry slash with a scimitar and darting back just too far out of reach of another from the ice-flecked glowing blade. Then they ran, sooner than Fjord expected, faster than Fjord expected, faking one misdirection toward Yasha ‒ quickly bearing down on them from the other end of the alley, a fierce fucking thing to see ‒ before kicking up off the wall of the tavern, finding purchase along ice-slicked wooden slats enough to scurry for the roof. 

“Molly!” Fjord shouted over the wind for the tiefling to follow, his eyes trained on their quarry as, the falchion melting from his grasp and eldritch energy boiling up in his palms, he sent two sickly pale green bolts at the figure. Something in his chest reared its ugly head up in delight as one glanced off their side but the other slammed hard into their back, making them stumble and hit hard against the slanted snow-covered roof before regaining their footing.

“I know, I know,” Molly griped, even as in Fjord’s periphery he saw the shadows beginning to coalesce and churn around Molly’s form.

The sound that escaped Yasha’s chest was very nearly a frustrated roar, her eyes dark with a low simmering rage as they raced along the low roofline. The figure skid to a near halt as Jester’s radiant lollipop slammed down into the roof in their path, wood splintering and with a loud crack, snow and shattered wooden tiles sliding down the slant of it and tumbling to the alley below.

Jester complained loudly at the miss, clutching her Traveler’s symbol with one hand and pointing with the other as a brilliant flare of light gathered at her fingertips. “And where do you think _you’re_ going?” she shouted, grinning delightedly as the guiding bolt sprang forth from her hand and slammed into their shadow’s back, lighting them up like a beacon.

But still the figure scrambled up the steep pitch of the roof to no doubt vanish down the other side, seconds away from sliding with a tumble of snow out of sight. But not before the shadows darkened and swam around them even as they dove, Molly’s spectral form, his ghastly outline still reforming, appearing directly in their path with a flurry of steel.

Molly’s blades bit into them once, twice with a streak of red drops against the disturbed snow and ice, but then they were gone, darting around Molly and disappearing over the edge to slide down to the ground on the other side of the tavern if the direction of Molly’s gaze as he cursed after them was anything to go by.

And then they were giving chase, with little more agreement or consideration than a shout of “Go!” to Molly and the briefest eye contact with Jester.

Jester’s dimension door took her up to the rooftop beside Molly, the two picking their way nimbly down the row of conjoined rooftops and over the narrow gaps between buildings in the close quarters of the market district. Fjord and Yasha struggled to keep up at the street level, the scant number of people in the street they encountered scattering and quick to leap out of their way, mumbling unimaginative curses under their breath that a second look at Yasha shut down quickly.

Still running. It was difficult even to keep an eye on Molly and Jester through the dark. And at this rate, eyes and feet barely quick enough to catch sight of the snapping black cloak ahead of them vanishing and reappearing at longer and longer intervals between shadows in alleys and street corners, between crates and hitched carts and small huddled groups of civilians hurrying through the streets, Fjord tried to ignore more and more the sinking feeling that their chase was already useless. The last pink and orange stained fragment of sky was fading too quickly. And the distance between them only growing.

The howling wind stabbing at every inch of exposed skin was secondary to what felt like ice shards in Fjord’s lungs with every inhale as he forced himself faster, breaking ahead of Yasha. His heart raced, anxiety spiking as he heard shouting behind them and caught the flash of maroon and bronze armor in the corner of his eye, but he kept his eyes forward, glancing between the dark narrow street ahead and the low roofline, trying to keep track of Molly and Jester, who were hopefully better situated to find any trace or shadow of their quarry than he was.

He heard Jester shout ahead of them, saw her pointing for just a moment before she and Molly altered course with a shower of snow, veering right across the roof and leaping across the gap with a near tumble to continue down the connecting street. 

That was how, with a startled curse, Fjord came skidding to a stop before running smack into the back of a merchant's covered cart blocking the street ahead, more congested and cluttered with an ever thinning crowd and market stalls. Swearing, he and Yasha ran around it, forcing their way along the narrow cobblestone walkway while eyeing every hooded face they passed, which was too many. 

Looking back up to the roofline, he was unsurprised to see Jester and Molly further ahead by a fair distance, slowing and looking back. Glancing over his shoulder, he wasn’t surprised either to see the persistent shouting in their trail was a patrol group of four Crownsguard running after them, just rounding the corner and pausing in their pursuit to scan through the crowd.

Fjord called after Yasha, motioning for them to slow, to blend, still weaving around stalls and tents and vendors hawking their last wares of the day but rapidly losing ground and, cursing as he realized it, sight of Jester and Molly altogether.

Fjord chanced a look over his shoulder, seeing the meager crowd part before the Crownsguard cutting through the square.

“Fjord‒” Yasha’s eyes were dark, her jaw set, but the rage and determination from before had gone.

“I know,” he interrupted, too winded to snap even as the frustration and _uselessness_ had him grinding his teeth painfully. He began to pull them aside, toward the mouth of either a narrow alley or merely a dark recess between the buildings, either one helpful in avoiding the Crownsguard they’d alerted with their mad dash through the city. “I don’t even ‒ fuck,” he swore. “I don’t even know where ‒”

“Stop!” There was a clamor, a murmur in the crowd, a shout over their shoulders.

“‒ fuck’s sake,” Fjord groaned, looking back to see the guards hurrying in their immediate direction. “Time to get out of here.”

Fjord grabbed Yasha’s elbow, directing her to a sufficiently clear patch of cobblestone to avoid collateral damage, and summoning the falchion to his hand and familiar dark tendrils of power to his grasp, with a crack of thunder, the ground vanished from beneath them as gravity tilted. The same moment, the echo of thunder and confused, frightened shouts nearly a hundred feet behind them, they were running as soon as their feet hit the stones of the alley they’d appeared in.

They had rounded the street corner and nearly made it a block down the narrow walkway when two dark forms appeared in Fjord’s periphery, vaulting over the wood slat fence to his and Yasha’s left with the flap of cloaks and warning glint of metal.

He spun, falchion already raised ‒

“Fjord!” Jester hissed from just over Molly’s shoulder, both hurrying to join them as they continued quickly down the narrow walkway. “Yasha. Are you guys okay? Was that thunder from you?”

Fjord nodded briskly, trying to both look his returned companions over and look back the direction they came from while paying attention to where he was putting his feet. “We need to go. We have ‒”

“I’m afraid we lost the bastard,” Molly interrupted to explain, wincing more at the admission than how he was trying to dab at the open wounds left by his own blades. “We didn’t want to push ahead after we lost sight of you.”

“I know,” Fjord sighed, breath frosting in the air before it was whipped away by the wind. “What matters more is just getting clear. We have Crownsguard on our ‒”

Molly cursed in Infernal, shoving the red-blotted scrap of fabric back in his belt. “Bastards have an untimely way about them.”

“I _know_ ,” Fjord repeated, barely able to get his thoughts in order. “But right now,” he added, following Molly and Jester out into a small empty intersection where the buildings thinned, the streets grew wider, and half the Tri-Spire District sprawled out before them at the bottom of the gently sloping hill they crested. “We just need to get ‒” 

Fjord stopped in his tracks, mouth still open mid-sentence but the breath froze solid in his lungs. He felt Yasha bump into his back, but his eyes were too fixed on the sky and city ahead of them to gauge the two tieflings’ confusion. 

The sky was a dark velvet grey, clouds a thin black blanket high above the peaks of the three towers that defined Zadash’s skyline, the stars peeking through faint, few and far between. But through the dark shroud of nightfall, the distant, brilliant glow of flame. A small beacon near the center of the Tri-Spires within the Silken Terrace. But growing, morphing and flaring outward. Its shape as it coalesced was too blurred by the distance to know its origin, thick column of dark smoke spitting the sky.

And so Fjord was left with only the vague mental map he’d established from his trips into the Terrace, and the stark, immediate fear that seized his chest. Every other thought suspended, his instincts and something darker, something older in the back of his mind, in his very blood called forth every irrational worry from less than an hour before, need and fear and anger resurging with a vengeance. 

“Fjord?” Yasha’s voice was quiet, confused, even as Jester gasped, pointing out the pillar of flame and smoke in the distance.

But he was already running, the cold, the exhaustion, the danger they themselves were in, all of it fading in comparison to the need burning hotter and brighter than the fire turning the black sky a hazy orange. Because Fjord knew, before he could even be certain, without reason or cause _he knew_ , he needed to get to Caleb. Needed to know he was safe in the face of the sinking, terrifying certainty that settled in his chest that he was not. That he had already waited too long. That his first impulse had been the right one.

Knew he needed it like he knew he needed air. Air that just wasn’t coming to him.

His friends’ cries of protest went unheeded, Fjord’s ears deaf to everything but the thundering of his own blood through his skull, and after barely a moment, the sound of three pairs of boots pounding against the frozen earth in his wake.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

His hand extended, he stepped forward. Closer. The flames draped over his shoulders licking forward eagerly, though easily quelled. Obedient. 

As they should be.

Blood mingled with sweat, trickling down his neck. Dampened robes sticking at the collar. At his side. He curled his fingers, slow. Not yet closed. Floorboards creaking with weight, with the proximity of  heat, Caleb stepped closer. 

He watched her face, her eyes, closely. The fear in them. The certainty he put there. The resignation. 

He preferred the resignation.

_If they plead, you have failed. They see weakness in you. They see mercy._

He did not enjoy their pleading either. But perhaps not for the reason his master gave. He preferred the quick end. But even that was a mercy, to Bren. A mercy Caleb Widogast adopted. An acceptable mercy. 

And so a mercy he dared not voice. 

Red, so much red mingled with the foam at the corner of her mouth, trickling over her chin as the woman convulsed, suspended above the floor. Hood hanging useless, her eyes were glassy. Irises grey. And afraid. 

As she should be.

 _Are you going to look away?_ The soft hand on his shoulder was a memory. The whisper in his ear a ghost.

Choked gasps and sobs caught in her throat, the thief struggled and pressed uselessly against the binds of the spell. Lifting, and crushing. Held aloft, unmoving.

 _No. You do not need to remind me, Astrid._ He did not look away anymore. 

His hands did not shake anymore. 

 _But I do. Imagine what he would do, if he knew you looked away?_ He felt her, a step behind him, her fingers dragging light across his shoulders. Daring him to turn away. He knew if he did, he would see her there. Her smirk dangerous. And loyal. Too loyal. But not to them. 

He pushed her ghost away. And with the crack and splintering of bone, closed his hand. She would not leave until he did this. She always looked. Never made Ikithon tell her twice. Always made him proud. 

Another traitor’s corpse hit the floor with a wet thud. More crimson slick, pooling across the floor. Grey eyes dulled, but the fear remained. Frozen in death.

Only then did he look away. Only then, because corpses were best let be. 

He looked to the door, hanging open. The wind howling outside had it rattling against the frame, hinges creaking, snow beginning to drift across the floor. Then down to his hands. Stained red. With his blood or another’s, he did not know. Barely recognizable.

Only then did some absent will carry him forward.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb’s manor was burning. 

After the time it took to get there, as soon as they’d entered the Silken Terrace, it was painfully, jarringly obvious. Fire crawled up the left face of the building, centered near the study Fjord had become so familiar with, windows shattered and wood siding blackened and crumbling where it burned hottest. It seemed slow to spread from there, had just barely reached the edge of the roof and hadn’t yet touched much of the ground level, but that did little ‒ nothing really ‒ to calm the panic that surged in Fjord’s chest. Expanding until it left no room to breathe, to think, until his skin felt stretched thin enough to split and his limbs shook with the effort to carry him faster.

There were already Crownsguard, a patrol’s worth of about six, gathering just outside the front gates. More coming, he was sure. What were either neighbors or concerned passersby clustered on the opposite side of the street. The scene outside the manor grew clearer as the four of them tore down the snow-cleared cobblestones, seemingly unnoticed as all eyes were either on the flames or the figure in dark blue who was in some sort of less-than-cordial confrontation with the city guards attempting to stand in her way. 

A familiar voice, Fjord began to register by the audible, creative cursing. A familiar face too, he realized, just as Beauregard spun on her heel and slammed her elbow into the jaw of the Crownsguard that had just put a hand on her shoulder. All one fluid motion, she was vaulting up the steps and sprinting for the front door before he could blink.

“Fjord! Wait!”

He ignored Jester’s cries, throwing himself forward through the confusion of the rallying guards looking to each other for protocol to guidance when there was clearly a lack of anyone in command. Shouldering his way past two guards still shouting after Beau without slowing, Fjord ran after the monk even as she burst through the door and disappeared inside. Swearing, Molly, Jester and Yasha tried to follow and force their way through the Crownsguard, who it now seemed by the shouting were intent on keeping everyone a reasonable distance away from the burning building.

Fjord spared a glance over his shoulder; saw Jester a few paces behind him, her expression tense and holy symbol in hand; saw Yasha shove a guard off of her and follow after them; saw as Molly turned to the Crownsguard, hands and voice raised. And he could just begin to hear whatever bullshit the tiefling began to weave to give them time as Fjord shoved through the door hanging on its hinges in Beauregard’s wake.

The manor was too extensive to see fire, and no smoke curled into the foyeur. No torch sconces were lit, and there was no Righteous Brand guard where one normal sat in the chair at the corner. No anything. He breathed, looking everywhere, trying to take in everything and seeing nothing as a result. Not even Beau, wherever she had vanished to; just the foot of the staircase, the sitting room beyond the archway to his left, the hallway that disappeared past the staircase on the right, and ‒ 

And the hallway beyond was dark. The floor darker, in odd pools and patches, a familiar, nearly black liquid spilt and smeared where boots and struggling bodies left a path. Fjord’s ears rang, his head light and spinning even while his heart for all its racing felt like it froze solid, a heavy and jagged weight that plummeted in his chest, that cut deep, that _hurt_. 

He could barely breathe. Could barely acknowledge Jester’s hand on his shoulder, or Yasha as she stepped ahead of them, greatsword drawn, scanning dark corners for danger. He could only stare at the blood, _too much blood, gods it was too much_.

“Caleb!” Fjord was yelling, calling out to Caleb before he could think better of it, before Yasha could throw a cautious glare at him, before Jester could hiss a warning, her fingers tightening around his elbow. He yanked away, uncaring, stumbling forward. “ _Caleb!_ ”

 “ _Fjord_ , we’ll find him, but ‒ Fjord!” Jester grit her teeth in frustration, ignored.

Fjord pushed forward. And the fear, the panic… it was replaced by the _anger_ . The furious, black and seething _wretched_ sort of anger that reared up inside him. That came from something deep enough, primal enough, that Fjord couldn’t know whether it was his own or another tether to his patron. And it wrapped around his rib cage tight, a nest of thorns, pulling so sharply he was sure it left scars. Anger that called the falchion to his hand by its own accord.

He was running down the hallway, whatever threats there were and Yasha’s effort to go first to confront them be damned, following where the blood ran along the baseboards and the seams in the floorboards in dark crimson rivulets, but there were only corpses. Shattered furniture, all in disarray, and a trail of blood and bodies. Armored ones. A familiar looking half-elf in Righteous Brand colors, dual curved blades not even drawn. Another set of silver and dark crimson plate. And two dressed in dark black and greys. Unfamiliar light armor. One hacked near to pieces. The other a gruesome, crumpled pile that wasn’t made such with any blade Fjord knew of.

That one… that one eased some of the panicked worry trying to claw its way over the floodgates in the back of Fjord’s mind. Because there was no Caleb here. And who else but Caleb was capable of _that_? So Caleb was fighting.

 _Good_ , he observed, taking dark satisfaction in the fact. But there was no time to dwell. Fjord took note of the grey leather, the dark cloak, knew precisely what he was looking for. 

But he _needed to find Caleb._

Fjord was running again. Leaving Yasha to her prowling. Not waiting for Jester who tried to stay by his side. Running back down the hallway, avoiding fallen bodies and the worst of the blood, making for the study, the war room, the library, all the same place, all where he only ever found him. The center of whatever had happened here.

He had just set foot on the staircase when they heard it. The crash from upstairs, the crack of wood and plaster as a door was kicked in. The frustrated scream, so clearly born of anger and fear. Beauregard’s shouting, voice strained and nearly choking ‒ the smoke, the fire, Fjord was reminded ‒ calling out uselessly for Caleb, without response.

“Caleb!” Another crash, and cursing, and taking the steps two at a time Fjord was just cresting the staircase. And _now_ he saw the smoke, crawling along the ceiling. “Where the fuck are you?” A choked cry. 

The door adjacent the study at the end of the hallway ‒  that end now subsumed in flames ‒ flew open violently, smoke and the orange light of the flames lit up behind Bearegard’s silhouette as she stepped out, catching herself against the wall, coughing into her elbow. 

She looked up, and her eyes were on him in an instant, dropping down to the falchion, barely seconds before she had closed the distance of the hall entirely to stand before him, fists raised, scowl permanently affixed. 

“Where is he?” she demanded, and Fjord was under no illusion that her threat of violence was merely a threat.

Jester sprang up from the last stair, still breathing hard from their race through the city. “Woah, woah,” she chastised, hands up in a calming gesture. “We like just got here and there’s _a lot_ of dead people downstairs, what ‒”

Beau’s eyes went wide.

“Not him,” Fjord managed to gasp, shaking his head. He hadn’t realized how his chest was heaving until he tried to speak, unable to catch his breath, too winded to worry about what personna he was wearing. “Checked. Not him.”

Beau’s exhale was near a sob, eyes looking around wild, scrubbing the soot and damp from her face with her sleeve. It was only then that Fjord noticed the tears she blinked back, her eyes red. “Then where ‒” 

Beau spun around toward the inferno encroaching down the hallway at the loud creaking-turned-splintering sound coming from the study. She was backing up toward the staircase with Fjord and Jester stumbling behind her as one of the overhead beams set ablaze came crashing down, a fair portion of the ceiling crashing with a cloud of soot and smoke and debris with it.

Urgency reiterated, heart in his throat, Fjord started forward automatically, a jerky half-step only stopped by Beau’s arm stretched out in front of him. Her expression was stern, but no less worried as she raised her voice above the roar of the flames, now spreading faster. “We have to go, we’ll find ‒”

“Fjord! Jester!” Yasha’s shout came from downstairs, muted through the walls and the creaking of timber and flames, but urgent. It came followed by a crash, and a bloodcurdling roar of rage that Fjord had heard a hundred times from Yasha before, never precipitated by anything good.

Faster than he thought possible, Beauregard had shoved past him and Jester to sprint down the stairs, vaulting over the railing halfway down and dropping to the hallway below. Fjord was a close step behind, nearly tripping over himself, frustrated growl ripped from his chest as he and Jester took longer to clear the steps and round the banister, turning down the bloodstained hall again as Beauregard was already vanishing around the far corner a full thirty feet ahead.

It was a blur as Fjord followed. He tracked the flash of blue coat fluttering behind Beau as she flew through overturned rooms and ran shoulder first into doors where Fjord had not passed before. Nor would he likely remember the route and layout for as narrow as his tunnel vision had collapsed. The monk cut a direct path through the manor, following the angry shriek of steel and Yasha’s bellow of pain or anger ‒ impossible to say when they sounded the same ‒ until the sound of the conflict brought the three of them crashing through the kitchens in time to see Yasha, clothes and greatsword streaked in red, picking herself up from the remains of a splintered table on the ground and charging after another whirlwind of dark robes and leather armor as it fled out the back door, snow and frigid cold drifting in after.

Beau leapt over the bloody pool forming around another broken body, killed with a terrible efficiency Fjord couldn’t imagine possessing at his fingertips, paying it no heed as she vanished into the dark winter night outside. Not so dark, Fjord realized, brilliant reds, yellows and oranges reflecting off the snow-covered lawn and gardens of the rear of the estate, the growing fire throwing shifting light across the white backdrop like the gentle autumn colors of the stained glass woven throughout Caleb’s study, now consumed by the very flames that cast it.

Bursting through the door, falchion raised and eldritch energy humming in his free hand, Fjord’s breath was ripped from his lungs by the wind that tore past, carrying the flames with it. But what had him standing frozen in his tracks, blind to how Beau ran to flank the man Yasha’s greatsword cut into, bringing him to the ground with a flurry of well-placed strikes, blind even to the Crownsguard rounding the outside of the manor, voices raised, swords flashing in the firelight, and Molly being dragged under protest with them, was Caleb.

Standing in the middle of the grounds, a dark verdant circle melted around him, Caleb stood tall, his back to the manor, wreathed in dancing flame. And before him, a hellish background, a wall of fire reaching up fifteen, twenty feet to swipe hungrily at the ink-black sky, the length of it curving around the back of the grounds just shy of the wrought iron fence. Fjord’s heart stuttered nearly to a stop. He was already reaching within himself for the control over the water sizzling and sinking into the sodden ground, before _how_ Caleb stood, rigid, commanding his full height as fire rolled off his shoulders like some terrifying mantle, how the fire _moved_ , how Caleb turned over his shoulder, expression gone frighteningly void, colder than the snowbank and nearly as pale, had Fjord freezing under his black gaze. Yet Caleb’s eyes passed right through him, passed over Jester, scanning the periphery, and only pausing on the still form the assailant Yasha pulled Magician’s Judge from. 

The realization hit Fjord’s gut like he’d been kicked by a horse; dawning on him perhaps just after it did for Jester, with her quiet, sad gasp of dismay, her gentle “Oh no,” Traveler's symbol clasped tight to her chest. He watched Caleb ‒ watched his friend, his everything ‒ drift slowly, purposefully toward the dead man bleeding out in the snow, his eyes fixed downward with a cold, haughty disdain so foreign to Caleb’s features that he barely recognized him. But it wasn’t Caleb, not really. Nothing like the small poorly hidden smiles, or blue curious eyes; no gentle hearth at night or the quiet scratch of quill against parchment. Neither was it precisely Archmage Widogast, whom Fjord had first met, reserved, mysterious, competitive, curious. 

No. This man’s hands were stained red in the firelight. His eyes were black. His lips quivered in a near snarl, wretched anger and deeper yet, _pain_ , resting heavy on his shoulders and brow. Hand lifting, the flames contorted around him, the sea of fire at his back surging higher, hotter at his wordless command. And _this was wrong_ , Fjord knew; and he felt it as surely as one of these assassins’ blades sinking through his heart.

“Caleb…” 

He wasn’t loud enough, he knew. Wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the inferno of hellfire raging on almost every side. Still he stepped forward, shock abating to something colder, numbness settling over his skin as he approached like he would a starved animal, unpredictable in every way except for the certainty it would bite.

“Caleb?” Fjord tried louder, pleading, just ten feet away and already wincing at the heat as he reached forward, cautiously trying to gain Caleb’s attention rather than his ire. 

He ignored the chaos beyond, the fire spreading, the Crownsguard yelling, too many voices at once to track what was being said between them and Molly, Beauregard and Yasha as they approached. He barely registered Jester’s cry after him to wait, herself torn between the confrontation with the guards and Fjord’s plunge forward, barely registered her voice, but he heard her shouting his name, a warning, ignoring her as he reached for Caleb. Heard her call out to him by another name, “Vandran”, laced with a reminder it rang in his ears, making his step falter. But that at least Fjord understood, and clearing his throat, he remembered himself.

And when Caleb ‒ whatever version of him stood there in this moment ‒ stopped and _looked_ , Fjord felt his insides twist agonizingly with grief for what he saw in Caleb’s eyes as they turned to him. Focus too distant, gaze too dark, Caleb’s collar and cheek smeared with blood, more still darkening already black robes, there were leagues of ice between them, walls thrown up that the flames did nothing to thaw.

“Hey,” Fjord gentled, still edging forward. “It’s me. Just me,” he reassured, hating how the drawl felt too tight in his throat, too dry in his mouth. “Caleb?” Fjord inched closer, seven, six, five feet out, forced to stop as the heat radiating from the mantle of fire about Caleb’s shoulders twisted unnaturally, threatening to leap forward and burn. “Caleb, are you with me?”

Caleb’s head tilted to the side, a slight tick he might have taken for interest if not for the blank slate of his expression. Perhaps recognition then, but barely, and that thought alone stabbed at Fjord’s heart again. But Caleb had stopped, focused on Fjord for the moment.

“Darling,” Fjord said quietly, oh so quietly, a gentle prayer. And for a moment, the shouting, the blades being drawn as Molly shoved a guard back, as Yasha glared darkly with blood still dripping off her sword, the heartwrenching quiet of Jester’s overwhelmed tears, and Beauregard’s useless effort to make them _listen_ to her, to take control of the scene… all of it faded to muted orange and red and yellow. To burning heat cut by freezing wind. To the creak of timber. 

“Darling,” Fjord pleaded. “Put the fire out.”

He stepped closer, wincing at the heat, at Caleb’s empty gaze fixed on some point impossibly far away, passing right through him. But something shifted in Caleb’s expression, a tightening of his brow, a near impermissible flicker in his eyes as the veneer cracked. Caleb’s shoulders fell, chest heaving, and the fire pooling around him began to dim, to simmer, heat retreating to a tolerable warmth.

“Fjord…” Barely a whisper, grating painfully in Caleb’s throat.

Fjord’s heart broke a little, his hand coming to rest lightly at Caleb’s wrist, the other tentatively to the crimson smear across his throat and the injury it betrayed beneath. “I’m here,” he murmured, smiling weakly. “It’s alright. Whatever’s happened, it’s over,” he cooed softly, looking for any sign in Caleb’s eyes that he heard him, that he was here.

Caleb was silent, every line of him tense, his breath shallow and too fast as he began to return to himself. “I‒ I d‒” The words caught in Caleb’s throat; his face, already too pale, looked stricken.

Fjord hushed him gently, stepping closer still that Caleb might look at him and not the chaos surrounding them. His fingers ghosted softly over the line of Caleb’s jaw, coming away red as he resisted the urge to pull Caleb into his arms, too aware himself of their surroundings, simmering fire be damned. “It’s alright. Just look at me, look here love. I’ve got y‒”

The shouting cut through his words, making Caleb tense and jerk away, his head snapping around to locate it, expression hardening, retreating back behind his walls as the flames encompassing him surged to life again, forcing Fjord to stumble back.

“Caleb,” he tried, more desperate, hands shaking, heart in his throat. “ _Caleb_ look at me, _please_ , Ca‒”

To no use, he realized, glancing over his shoulder quickly at the escalating conflict behind them; saw the point of one of Molly’s scimitars tickling the chin of the Crownsguard that had put a hand on Yasha, saw a half dozen more blades raised against him, and Jester and Beau trying to talk them down to no avail.

“Caleb, please love,” Fjord pleaded, dropping the falchion and letting it dissipate to mist, reaching out to Caleb, cautious, but he’d already lost whatever ground he’d been able to gain, he knew. Caleb’s eyes were trained on the swarm of Crownsgaurd at the edge of the estate, his hands curled to near fists as they blackened and flaked with summoned flames. “Caleb _please,_ look ‒ look at me, _Caleb_.” Fjord swore, eyes too hot, trying desperately to bring Caleb back even as Crownsguard were wrestling Molly and Yasha to the ground, iron cuffs being locked in place, Jester’s attempts to pull them apart only earning her a set of her own. 

“Fjord! Tell them ‒ tell them to stop!” she screamed across the yard, distraught, near a panic, her face streaked with tears. “Tell them ‒”

“I said get _the fuck_ off her,” Beau was threatening, forcing her way into the middle of them, looking _this_ close to snapping and planting her fist in an offending guard’s face, but there were too many of them now, more having arrived, and her Cobalt colors were only very nearly sparing her the same treatment. “Caleb! Caleb, I could use some help over here!”

“Caleb,” Fjord tried one last time, desperate, heart slamming against his sternum as he stepped in his path, but Caleb’s gaze went right through him, dark and dangerously cold. “Caleb, I need you to come back to me, please love. I _need you_ to come back.” 

But he saw nothing in Caleb’s eyes but the dark reflection of the fire crawling across the manor, across the estate, summoning Caleb’s gaze to it like a siren’s call, and just as poisoned. 

Swearing, breathing hard, Fjord reached for the tether to the darkness roiling deep below out of desperation. Stretching out his hand, eyes rolling back, he spoke a word that came to him without meaning and felt the water seeping into the thawing soil surge. Gritting his jaw tight, ignoring the panicked shouting of the Crownsguard, Fjord called the water up and it rose, coalesced, joined with melting snow and ice to form a wave that rushed across the grounds at the slowly encroaching wall of hellfire, smoke replaced by clouds of steam as the flames sputtered and choked with an almighty hiss, fading to sodden, blackened scorched earth. 

And Caleb didn’t react to any of it, eyes somewhere in the distance, past the burning manor as Fjord sent the wave crashing over the side of the building before his grip on the spell faded, dampening and slowing the spread of the flames within. 

“Caleb?”

Still, nothing. Not when the flames went out, spell disrupted. Not when Fjord reached out for him, the fire cloaking him be damned, trying to gently pull him back to the surface from wherever he’d retreated inside.

“ _Caleb_ ,” Fjord tried again, more firmly. “Please, I need your help. _I need you_.”

But Caleb didn’t give any indication he had even heard him. Not as Fjord stumbled back, out of the range of the growing intensity of the flames that swarmed around Caleb’s shoulders. Not when Beauregard gave up diplomacy and ran to them, eyes angry red and fists bloodied. Not as Crownsguard began to drag his friends away, and began approaching Fjord, calling for him to back away from the Archmage despite how colorfully Beauregard cursed at them.

“Caleb…” Softer. Hopeless. “It’s alright. It’s alright…” Every step, Fjord’s instincts screamed at him to stop, to stay, to fight, but Fjord stepped back. Numb. Aching. He lifting his hands in plain view as the guards approached. “Beau, I’m going with them.”

“What?” she snapped, whirling on him. “Caleb, t‒”

“I’m going with them,” he said, clearing his throat, eyes still on Caleb where he stood frozen, a shade of the man Fjord knew. And that more than anything shattered the fragile thing in Fjord’s chest still reaching out to Caleb. “Because they’re taking my crew, and because once we’re all gone, and everything quiets, you need to be here.” _For him_.

But that didn’t make her swear and threaten any less. It didn’t make Molly’s shouts and Infernal curses, of Yasha’s anger, or Jester’s tears twist his gut any less violently.

The guards at least let him walk with them freely for questioning, finding him unarmed and unresisting. 

And Caleb… Caleb was in another place altogether. 

And last Fjord saw of him before he was too far around the corner, the fire flickering low as his expression faltered, fracturing, Beauregard stood before him. She reached out cautiously, speaking gentle words that were lost to the wind.

Fjord’s chest ached fiercely. But it was _nothing_ compared to the pain he felt as Caleb’s gaze drifted, meeting Fjord’s eyes with the briefest flash of confusion and anguish as he was pulled away.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😎


	17. shattered, remade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's whumptober babes you know what that means
> 
> song rec spoiler at the end

Chapter 17: shattered, remade

There were burns on his hands. Burns Fjord hadn’t noticed before.

Not until now, finally sitting down, his elbows on his knees, watching how the reddened, blistered skin of the back of his knuckles and along the side of his palms stretched as he curled his fingers into fists. Stretched until the pain cut through the haze of exhaustion, sharp and burning still. Only then he relented, breathing in deeply, letting his fingers splay out straight, studying the faint lattice of old scars and calluses across his hands.

The chairs were uncomfortable, sure. But he would’ve sworn he had begun to feel the grooves between the masonry through the worn out soles of his boots. The hours stretched by and blended together until he’d damn near lost track of them, pacing his way into what must have been four in the morning. Around and around this narrow room, tucked away in some forgotten corner of Zadash’s jail. 

But it wasn’t a cell. Not according to the worn deck of playing cards on the table and the half-eaten meal that had still been warm when he’d first been ushered inside. More like some sort of storage space turned break room for the guards, little more than four stone walls, a couple moth-eaten cots shoved against the back, a long table, some chairs, and a sturdy door that locked. From the outside, he’d learned.

Fjord huffed a breath, scuffing the stones with the heel of his boot, a bit of dry discarded fruit rind skittering across the floor. No, it wasn’t a cell.

He’d seen those as the guards walked him by the corridor lined with them. His cooperation and lack of a weapon, in addition to his attempted explanation of his emissary status, his reason for being at the Archmage’s home — though the guards seemed only half-interested in listening — earned him slightly better treatment than his companions. Best he could tell, Molly, Jester, and Yasha were properly under arrest, whereas he was being held for further questioning. So he knew the cramped, damp condition in which they were spending the night. Shackled. 

It made him furious. Made his stomach turn violently at the thought, as if he were about to be sick. But after the third time that the night’s events had left him doubled over in that small room, the twisting in his gut threatening to reduce him to a dry-heaving mess of nerves, he’d stopped paying it much mind.

After everything... the way Caleb had looked, too pale, too absent against a backdrop of flame... the fear, anger, and panic that preceded it... he just didn’t have the energy left to feel much of anything beyond  _ numb _ .

And no amount of pounding at the door would let him see his friends, or anyone for that matter, any faster. Nor did it earn him his promised audience with whoever was in charge. He doubted the guards who took them in even knew who was in charge in the first place; listening, ear pressed against the door between laps of exhausting pacing, muddled in the guards’ passing gossip of an attempt on the resident archmage’s life — no, Fjord was still capable of feeling something over than numbness, because that still left him shaking — there were whispers of a coming starosta, of the warden, of someone from Rexxentrum maybe, of the Lawmaster herself who might intervene to settle the issue of the four individuals awaiting questioning.

When though, he didn’t know. Apparently not until some decent hour of morning. He grew tired of trying to keep track of the time by listening to the guard rotations outside, which were interrupted too often by the hurried pace of too many boots running through the halls. 

Enough to guess that most of Zadash’s authorities were up in arms over the evening’s incident.

No, not a cell. But it might as well have been. 

He couldn’t possibly have slept. He barely even rested. But Fjord felt himself jerking as if he’d been caught dozing on night watch at the rattle of keys behind the door. He froze to listen for a moment, muscles protesting too loudly to rise from his seat and gaze too intent on burning a hole through the floor with the scowl he had fixed in place to look up. But he was prepared to launch into a stream of questions, demands, and colorful insults as soon as his keeper stepped through the doorway.

There was more fumbling with the key ring, enough to have Fjord rolling his eyes. Eventually the key scraped inside the lock, door opening with a final shove, the aged hinges creaking. Soft boots padding slowly against the floor, stopping, waiting, was a far cry from the incessant crash and clang of metal armor echoing through the halls all night. Fjord closed his eyes, hands curled painfully into fists as he bit back the worst of his temper, threatening to boil up to the surface again.

Creaking, protesting, the door closed. But it wasn’t followed by the sliding of the lock.

“Either I’m under arrest,” Fjord rasped, voice thick in his throat, the muscles in his jaw twitching, “in which case you can throw me in a cell next to my crew, or I’m  _ not _ ,” he spat, fists curling tighter, his blunted claws biting sharply into the skin of his palms, “in which case you can open that door right  _ fucking  _ now before I do somethin’ that  _ puts me  _ in one of those cells.”

There was a brief silence. A quiet breath on a shallow exhale. Hesitation.

“Fjord…” A quiet word, his name. And maybe he’d never heard it said like that. Whispered sorrowful, and heavy.

Fjord’s heart leapt in his chest. His eyes flew open, thoughts racing and tripping over themselves while his head snapped up and he lurched to his feet, stumbling forward a few steps before remembering himself, standing on the opposite end of the room, his legs shaking, hands raised halfway to reaching for Caleb as if pleading silent permission to come closer, to touch, to know he was  _ here  _ and  _ safe  _ and  _ his _ .

“ _ Liebling _ …” Caleb’s eyes lifted from the ground, meeting Fjord’s cautiously, a dull and tired blue rimmed in red. 

“Caleb,” Fjord breathed, quiet and disbelieving. The air caught in his throat, his tongue feeling heavy and useless as he fumbled for words he couldn’t form. Too hopeful that Caleb was here, was himself; too afraid of  _ being  _ hopeful, of reaching out and shattering the illusion before him.

He stepped forward, but Caleb didn’t move from where he stood, his back pressed against the door and hands down by his side, palms flat against the wood behind him. His shoulders were drawn in on himself, his head low, and his eyes, meeting Fjord’s for only a fleeting heartbeat, dropped. He could not have put more distance between himself and Fjord short of leaving the room entirely, and there were very few ways that Fjord — even though he was no expert on interpreting body language by any means — could take that.

He stopped, a question written across his face, though he didn’t move any closer, no matter how he ached to. “Caleb?” Unsure. “Caleb, love, please,” he gentled, coaxing his eyes back up from the floor. Fjord studied the smear of dark red poorly washed away, the thin red line of a wound only just closed with magic, the edge of which disappeared under the collar of his coat. Fresh clothes hiding how much worse, he couldn’t be sure.

He reached out, a wounded sound escaping his chest, unable to find the words to convey how desperately he needed to pull the other man into his arms. Caleb’s chest rose and fell with a shaky breath, his expression guarded, gaze passing through Fjord entirely. But he swallowed, nodding jerkily, and it took every ounce of Fjord’s self-control to walk slowly, projecting each movement until it brought him within arm’s reach.

“Fjord, I –” Caleb paused, swallowing dryly, his brow furrowed in concentration and gaze stubbornly locked in distant space behind him.                    

“No,” Fjord reassured, voice a low whisper. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

He shifted nearer, hands lifting slowly, far steadier than he felt as they ghosted softly over either side of Caleb’s neck, bruises and blood flecks a painful contrast against pale skin. Caleb’s eyes fluttered, drifting closed as Fjord’s forehead came to rest gently against his own, the tension between Caleb’s brows pulling, resistant at first, but then bleeding away. Sliding his hands beneath the loose auburn locks falling about Caleb’s face, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips, Fjord’s hands settled gently at his jaw. A soft nudge, a murmured word and Caleb’s head tipped back easily. The hard line of his mouth softened, parting beautifully around a faint gasp as Fjord rocked forward, his lips brushing over Caleb’s. 

Not what Fjord wanted — to deepen the kiss, to claim, to  _ own  _ — but Caleb didn’t need more searing heat and rough hands. There was time for that later. 

“ _ Fjord _ ,” Caleb murmured against his lips, breathless, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Fjord’s shirt. There was something else, words Caleb might have been reaching for, but as Fjord’s hand slipped over his shoulder, dragging down his spine to coax Caleb flush against him, Caleb shuddered, dropping his head to Fjord’s shoulder, breath fluttering soft and warm against his neck.

Something deeply contented bloomed warm and possessive in Fjord’s chest. The tension he’d been carrying between his shoulders, the worry, it drained away as Caleb melted against him, in his arms. He pressed a kiss to Caleb’s temple, breathing in deep and even, the smell of smoke, and the iron tang of blood, the earthy scent of ink and lingering incense, the sharp hint of the arcane underlying it all. It was _Caleb_ , warm and gentle and familiar. And safe. And his. Here. Now. Everything as it should be.

For minutes or hours, Fjord didn’t know how long they stood there. He only knew it wasn’t long enough. Still, there was a part of him, a voice that hadn’t fallen quiet and content along with the rest of him at the gradually slowing pace of Caleb’s heart beating against his own. It whispered that it had to end, sooner rather than later. Reminded him of Jester, Molly, and Yasha, and of the danger than still existed. But that same voice recognized this was different, more intimate than falling into bed and rolling out again on opposite sides, carrying on according to Caleb’s self-imposed rules with business as usual. And it provided him with words in that moment that desperately wanted to claw their way out of Fjord’s chest and be heard, be real, though it would break the one unspoken rule which was perhaps more important than all the rest. 

It was never meant to mean anything. It wasn’t allowed to.

“Caleb,” he whispered, already regretting disrupting the fleeting peace they’d found as he stroked the loose strands of hair back from Caleb’s face. “Caleb, we have to talk.”

He felt Caleb breathe in, deep and steady now, felt him tense against him, and Fjord thought he could have predicted this outcome. He sighed, resigned as he felt Caleb’s hands push gently against his chest, as he felt him pulling away. Always pulling away.

Caleb cleared his throat, eyes downcast again, expression unreadable as Fjord took a reluctant half step back. “I came to speak with the warden, and order the release of yourself and your compatriots,” he said, voice a monotone rasp, words sounding stilted. “I apologize it took this long. There are… complications.” His words concluded with a note of finality. 

Fjord watched as Caleb’s gaze went distant, watched how he consciously righted the set of his shoulders, and slipped back behind walls just as solid and opaque as brick and mortar. 

And he wished, Fjord  _ wished _ , that he didn’t feel the need to do that. Wished — with a twisting anger in his chest at whoever, at whatever circumstances made it necessary to learn to do so in the first place — that Caleb wouldn’t guard himself behind cool disinterest and the vague, terribly capable threat of retaliation he wore well, if not comfortably.

It hurt, watching Caleb slip away. As if they weren’t alone. As if there were anyone here he had to put that mask on for. But then, Fjord didn’t expect to be able to say everything that needed to be said in this storage cupboard of a room in the belly of Zadash’s prison. He certainly didn’t intend to drag out his time here any longer. And he understood Caleb’s need to focus on the task at hand. Or at least he tried to.

Fjord sighed, but nodded, shuffling his disappointment away somewhere Caleb wouldn't find it with a soft smile. “Right. Well.” He motioned to the door. “We should probably go do that, then.” 

It might have been relief, or else gratitude, or a complicated entanglement of both that colored Caleb’s expression as the words left Fjord’s mouth, surprised at them almost, his eyes softening, distance crumbling. With a look, Fjord conveyed what understanding he could as their eyes met for a moment before Caleb swallowed, nodding his thanks as much as it was acknowledgement. But as Caleb turned back toward the door, Fjord reached out, catching his hand loosely in his own.

Caleb froze at the unexpected touch, staring down at where Fjord’s hand held his, jaw going tight.

“Just –” Fjord stopped himself, struggling for the right words. Words that didn’t betray too much, or overstep too far. “I know everything’s fucked up right now, but just, tell me you’re alright?” he asked quietly. He reached out, he  _ had to _ , fingers skimming over the faint red mark above Caleb’s collar, trailing down to settle lightly at his shoulder. “I know you’re hurt but… please tell me you’ll be alright. Please.” 

His last plea came barely a whisper, eyes transfixed on how Caleb’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, on the flutter of his pulse, on the splay of golden eyelashes as Caleb’s gaze dropped to the floor when Fjord spoke. He wasn’t sure if he expected an answer, and heart sinking, prepared himself for Caleb to pull away, or worse, to go cold. The tension in Caleb’s brow and the harsh line of his mouth were sure signs of the conflict roiling just under the surface, at war within himself. And Fjord didn’t even know what the sides were, much less which would win out. But then Fjord’s gaze was met by brilliant blue as Caleb’s eyes flicked back up, and rather than pull back, or turn away, he felt Caleb’s hand in his squeeze lightly. Just once. Lingering before slipping away through his fingers, returning to Caleb’s side.

Caleb breathed in, nodding slightly, some of that tension relaxing. There was a pause, hesitant, and heavy. “Yes,” he finally said, simple, but with a sureness that Fjord didn’t expect. “Tha—” His voice breaking, Caleb stopped abruptly, wincing. “Yes, I think I will be.” A pause. Caleb breathed in deeper this time, his eyes flicking back to the floor. And quieter, “Thank you, Fjord.”

Fjord nodded, unwilling to push his luck with words that didn’t seem adequate.

And so Caleb turned slowly back to the door and everything waiting for them beyond it, with one last glance to Fjord — his expression indecipherable, but complicated in a way the cold veneer was not — before reaching for the handle. 

And not for the first time, it struck Fjord as  _ different _ . The way Caleb was coming back to him. Still guarded, but present in a way Caleb had not been mere hours ago. And that alone lifted the lion’s share of the weight crushing down on Fjord’s shoulders. He stepped forward, following Caleb closely, at his side and slightly behind. Let him lead through the hallway lined with Crownsguard at their posts and Righteous Brand who moved to flank them. Kept him in arms’ reach. Would not let him out of his sight. And if his arm brushed Caleb’s as they walked, if Caleb leaned into it the barest fraction, eyes always forward, except when stealing glances across the narrow space between them in the crowded halls, then neither of them needed to comment on it. 

Not now. It was enough.

The words could wait. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I swear to the gods,” Beau threatened, every ounce of patience and focus she possessed wasted on keeping herself from planting a fist in the man’s face. “If you make me come back here with Widogast,  _ you’ll  _ be responsible for where  _ that  _ conversation –”

“I really wish you  _ would _ return with your master,” the warden, a frighteningly thin and greying human man with sharp elbows and a sharper voice, interrupted. Beau’s fingernails cut deeper into her palms, fists clenching tighter, her expression growing darker, all to no effect. “Because I certainly –”

“You’re making two mistakes,” she snapped with as disdainful a look she could manage, stepping forward until she forced him, grimacing in distaste, to take an awkward step back into the table. Both the early hour of the morning, which had bled right through from the previous evening, and the warden’s  _ delightful  _ disposition did nothing to change her inclination toward diplomacy. “The first is assuming I’d need his direction, or more laughably his  _ permission _ , to seriously fuck up your morning. The second is thinking you’d rather deal with a pissed off archmage without a single superior in a hundred mile radius than me. I  _ promise you _ , I’m the more reasonable of your two options.”

“Because I  _ certainly _ ,” he resumed coldly, staring unblinking down the bridge of his nose, “do not release prisoners on the orders of a monk –”

“Expositor.”

“Expositor of the Cobalt Soul,” he corrected, tight grin projecting nothing but sour displeasure. After almost twenty minutes of arguing, of escalation, of every means of persuasion and intimidation Beau had at her disposal, neither of them were playing at politeness anymore.

“I’m not ordering,” Beau countered, chin jutting forward defiantly. “I’m asking you, while you still have a choice in the matter.”

“Your threats are charming, Expositor,” the man sighed, eyes wandering to the door as if Beau needed another hint that he tired of the conversation. “But seeing as the sun has not even properly risen yet, and here you are in my office, I’m sure there is very little you could do to ruin my morning more than it has already been ruined.”

A sharp smirk, all teeth and disdain, pulled across her lips. “That’s not a bet I would take.”

“I cannot stress enough how little I care,” he offered, patronizing. “I cannot, so quickly, after an incident of this scale, involving such a high profile official, release prisoners being held on _separate charges_ , prior to questioning, to as _independent_ of an authority as a monk of the —”

“ _ Expositor. _ ”

Frozen mid-sentence, Beau didn’t think the man even breathed as he stopped himself short of anger. Finally, breath hissing through his teeth on a sharp exhale, he painfully collected himself with something more grimace than grin. “Expositor. Of the Cobalt Soul. So my answer, is no. Now  _ please _ , leave my office. Before you are escorted out.”

Beauregard forced herself to pause, breathing in deeply and holding for a moment before responding. “Let me just make sure I have this right,” she said slowly, plastering on a polite smile with very little effort to conceal the contempt underneath. “You’re holding four people you arrested at the Archmage’s residence, on suspicion of having something to do with the incident that occurred at the Archmage’s residence. And now the Archmage has sent me to inform you that they are in fact innocent, and he would, in fact, like them released. But you want me to tell him what exactly?”

“My answer has not changed,” the man insisted, more exhausted than angry, though that was rapidly changing. “I cannot release prisoners prior to questioning without explicit direction from the Lawmaster. If all is as you say, I am certain that the Archmage will have no difficulty speaking with her to –”

There was a hurried knock at the door, three quick raps before the heavy wood door scraped against the stone floor as it opened wide enough for a flustered-looking guard to lean inside. “Sir?”

“Not now,” the warden snapped, spinning round to glare at the young man, already red in the face, though whether it was anxiety or simply fear Beau couldn’t quite tell. “I’m –”

“Sir, the – there’s,” he stumbled over his words, breathing quick and shallow, ignoring Beau entirely. As incomprehensibly as he began, the guard managed to sputter something about “the prisoners” and, breathless, eyes wide – yes, that was fear – “ _ Archmage _ ”. All the warden needed to hear apparently before, with a noise of disgust in his throat, he swept out the door.

Rolling her eyes and preparing something along the lines of “ _ I told you so”  _ in the back of her mind, Beau followed on his coattails, past the guard now looking more confused than anything, patting him on the shoulder as she went.

The activity in the halls had calmed at least, only regularly scheduled rotations of Crownsguard walking through the narrow stone corridors as far as Beau could tell. Those guards stationed periodically throughout the jail were quick to straighten to attention and unlock doors at the sight of the warden, making her exit far more expedient than it had been to talk her way in.

Very quickly, the winding maze of corridors and downward spiraling stairs opened into a central hallway, long and poorly lit. The walls were lined with open arched doorways every twenty or so feet, the iron bars of holding cells in the chambers beyond each gaping entryway barely visible in flickering torchlight. Very clear however was the sound of the disturbance ahead, near the opposite end of the hall.

“– but there is nothing I can do until –” The unnamed voice was drowned out by a heckling boo from Molly, the tiefling’s voice raising louder and more irritated above the rest.

“If I had a copper for every time he’s said that,” Molly exclaimed, voice dripping sarcasm, “then my time here might  _ actually  _ have been worth something.”

Then a lower voice in the pause that followed, barely audible through the dull echoes of voices and marching footsteps. Yasha’s, Beau reckoned. “Molly, please. You’re not helping.”

They neared the end of the hall, one final chamber beyond the dark gaping archway ahead, from which all the voices carried.

“I think we’re straying a bit from the point.” Fjord’s voice. Tired. Frustrated, though doing a good job of not showing it. And a sure indicator that Caleb, if not already in the room, was not far behind. 

_ Shit shit shit.  _ She had been hoping to avoid the collision she foresaw coming in three… two… 

The darkness opened into a nearly circular chamber with high ceilings as they stepped through the arch, the center of it occupied by a ring of support pillars, benches between them. Small cells lined the walls, each not big enough for more than two or three prisoners. Not if the jailer was kind. There were about a dozen in total, though only three cells, each adjacent, were occupied; Molly, Jester, and Yasha stood by the bars of the far side of the holding chamber, in that order. Without their armor and weapons. 

Thankfully though, they looked none the worse for wear. Just exhausted and anxious like everyone else. Save Jester perhaps, her expression lacking the bright grin that lit up her eyes every other time Beau had seen her. Her shoulders hunched in on herself, made herself small, while one arm was crossed over her middle, clutching her own dress tight. Self-soothing. With the other she clung to the bars of her cell, Molly’s hand discreetly overtop of hers, almost casual if it weren’t so clearly a gentle reassurance. As for Molly, he looked annoyed. And Yasha, standing with her arms crossed, looked quietly furious.

Outside the cells, two beleaguered guards stood shoulder to shoulder, their backs to Beau and the warden’s approach. In front of them stood Fjord, his arms crossed, his mouth a hard line and brow furrowed in displeasure. And behind him, hands folded neatly together, expression perfectly neutral, Caleb stood flanked by two familiar Righteous Brand on either side, closer than they would normal stand for fear of weathering Caleb’s reproachful glares.

At nearly the same moment, both Caleb and Fjord noted their approach, either familiar with the warden’s station by his face (unlikely, it was very forgettable) or by the dreary grey coat and crest, or perhaps simply by the frustrated urgency with which he walked. And quite suddenly, the guards they had been addressing became irrelevant, both men’s attention diverted. Their eyes flicked between the warden and herself. Fjord’s gaze was assessing, absorbing, his posture immediately shifting to something much more inviting, a polite smile that even reached his eyes quickly replacing the scowl. And damn, she could learn from that. And Caleb’s… he was unreadable. Calculating, she supposed, and far less invested in first impressions.

“Ah, finally,” Fjord greeted, pleasant, cheerful even, enough that  _ she  _ almost believed it, and  _ that  _ was impressive. “The man everyone’s been dying to talk to.”

Molly tsked, shaking his head. “Word choice, Cap,” he reminded on a sigh as he stretched his spine, rolling his shoulders lazily. “People  _ are _ dying. Like me, for starters.” Fjord shot him a warning glance, but paid the comment no heed besides that.

“And you are?” the warden asked, having ignored Molly entirely despite how he eyed Fjord with near complete disinterest.

“Fjord,” he offered, recovering quickly when the man didn’t reciprocate the offered handshake. “Visiting your fine city for political business with the Archmage,” he said, motioning over his shoulder at Caleb, who didn’t so much as blink. “And as of last night, current resident of your jail here for some reason I haven’t quite figured out yet,” he said with a slight uptick, almost a laugh, as if the circumstances were humorous. Inconsequential. Forgivable.

“An error, perhaps,” Caleb intoned, less forgiving, his gaze shifting from the warden across the three in the cells. “I believe Beauregard has explained the situation.” She clenched her jaw,  glaring daggers at the warden, which she trusted Caleb to interpret correctly. “As she speaks for me, there is little use repeating myself. Would you agree,  _ Herr Aufseher _ ?” he asked, tone too level, too cold to be anything but dangerous.

The warden narrowed his eyes at Caleb, passing right over Fjord. Beau watched how the man shifted on his feet, crossing his arms as he tried and failed to return Caleb’s stare with the same degree of cold indifference. “My name is Solus Lorcan. I am the warden of Zadash’s Umber Dungeon–”

“I am aware,” Caleb interrupted. Beauregard didn’t need to catch Fjord’s smile twitch, nor catch the look he sent Caleb, to recognize that was less than tactful.

Lorcan’s shoulders drew back, a distasteful sneer stretching across his thin lips. “Archmage Widogast,” he greeted coolly, “wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

“ _ Wunderbar _ ,” Caleb echoed, with what must have been the most dry, fuck-off tone he could manage. Molly snorted, but thankfully even he knew enough to shut it. Beau was too conscious of even her own rough edges to try and intervene at this point.

She didn’t think that she had to though, and resolved that she wouldn’t unless it looked about to come to blows. Fjord stepped forward and slightly in front of Caleb, though for what purpose – to force Lorcan’s attention away from Caleb and onto himself or to obstruct Caleb’s glare – it was impossible to tell. He lifted his hands, palms up, placating in both gesture and tone. “All due respect, sir, it’s been a long night and an early morning for everyone. Perhaps if we could just address the mishap here, we can all be on our way.”

Beau nodded, was one judgement call away from giving Fjord a discreet thumbs up from behind Lorcan’s back. That seemed reasonable to her.

“I’m afraid not,” he snapped, dropping the pretense of a smile that remained. “As I am sure Ms. Lionett can explai–”

“ _ Expositor  _ Lionett,” Beau muttered, loud enough to be heard. A razor sharp smirk tugged at the corner of Caleb’s mouth. Molly cackled. And despite how she could almost see the warden’s thought process grind to a halt in the effort to restrain himself, veins standing out in his neck, Jester’s small grin made it worth it. No matter how Fjord sighed, finding no help with their lot.

“I  _ cannot _ , and what is more,  _ will not _ , sign off on anyone’s release without the proper authorization,” he snapped, arms crossed tightly.

Caleb hummed a flat note of disappointment, moreso over the effort the man was requiring him to expend than the answer, but it was Molly who seized the opportunity to speak up first. “Oh, I see,” he remarked, leaning casually against the bars, grinning fiercely enough for Beau to think he actually enjoyed this circus. “He wants you to grease the wheel, Widogast. You know, fees for services and all that? A little bit of coin pushes the paperwork faster, as they say.”

To his credit, the warden, Lorcan she reminded herself –  _ gods  _ what a pretentious asshole – looked damn offended. Righteously indignant, his nostrils flared, eyes cold and hard. “I want  _ no  _ such thing. I  _ insinuated  _ no such –”

“I do not believe this man is attempting to solicit a bribe, Mr. Mollymauk,” Caleb interrupted again, tone surprisingly level and non-incendiary, and this time, unsurprisingly, his interruption was taken better. 

Affront easing a fraction, the warden had the sense to look surprised, if wary. “Precisely,” he agreed. Relieved even. 

Molly frowned, unconvinced or else just disappointed. He chewed his lip delicately, head tilted artfully to the side as he studied the man up and down. “You certain of that? Maybe he’s just slow to get to the point.”

Caleb hummed a note of affirmation, his own gaze raking the warden up and down as well. The whole ordeal, intense eyes red and blue, was disconcerting enough to have Lorcan shifting his weight from foot to foot. Whatever Beau expected him to say, it wasn’t, “Quite an upstanding reputation actually, as civil servants go.”

There was an awkward pause. Fjord’s expression, his fake-ass smile, was more guarded as he nodded along, unsure what to make of Caleb’s change in attitude. The warden perhaps most sensibly of all looked suspicious. “Well, thank you,” he clipped dryly, straightening his collar self-consciously. “One hopes that their reputation should proceed them.”

“I’m not sure I would go so far as to agree with that.”

“You speaking from personal experience there, Widogast?” Molly chimed in, playfully irreverent.

Caleb didn’t react, eyes unnervingly never straying from the warden. “Just,” he began, pausing, considering. “So much farther to fall.”

Lorcan blinked, taken aback. “I... well, alright.”

Caleb exhaled a small huff of breath, tired but amused. When he spoke, gaze still predatorial in how he never wavered, it was difficult to tell who he was speaking to, though it certainly was not the man he was looking at. “I admit, the research was rushed, given the circumstances. But Nott’s little birds assure me that this man’s record is startlingly clean. Professionally, of course.” The warden’s eyes narrowed, his back straightening further if it were possible, and like him, Beau thought she knew where this was going. “Personally however, well. Who doesn’t partake in the occasional…” he trailed off, mouth pursed in a near smirk, “personal dalliance. Of the sordid variety,” he stated, as if a mere unfortunate, inconsequential fact.

Beau was fairly certain there was a saying, a colloquialism about a shoe dropping. And that would be it.

Eyebrows went up around the room. Guards shuffled uncomfortably, finding sudden interest with their boots. Fjord looked uncertain for a flash, eyeing Caleb oddly before it clicked. Molly guffawed, and even Jester snickered. But Beau had sort of expected the threatening to come a little sooner. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He almost sounded convincing too.

“Should I be more blunt?” Caleb asked, monotone. “Very well. I thought I might inquire into the wellbeing of your mistress,” he clarified. “I do not mean to confuse – there are a few, I know,” he remarked lightly, unnervingly, taking neither pleasure nor sympathy; it was just business. From the ashen pallor of the warden’s face, he took it slightly more personally. “The one in Druvenlode. Visiting, ah, ailing family, yes? Sad situation.”

“This is –” Lorcan sputtered, flustered and breathless. “This is entirely inappropriate. You cannot – I will not be blackmailed –”

“Blackmailed?” Fjord asked, eyebrows going up in faux surprise. “Who in Exandria is blackmailing you? That oughta be a crime.”

“You are!” Outrage replaced shock rapidly, his face going bright red.

Caleb’s blank expression did not shift even a fraction. “Consider me alarmed and offended,” he deadpanned.

Lorcan whirled sharply on the two guards at the door, motioning jerkily to Fjord. “Put this man back in holding,  _ now _ ,” he snapped, “and escort the Archmage –”

Caleb’s eyes flared with unguarded anger as his attention snapped to the guard who began to move first, and who immediately froze mid-stride. “Put a hand on that man, and lose the hand,” he warned, voice cold and sharp as steel. 

The torches around the walls flickered low, which was, as far as Beau could tell for all the night’s and morning’s events, the first outward sign that Caleb’s control, since he’d recovered it, was fraying. And though she had plenty of thoughts on  _ that _ , none of them good, one of the less pressing ones she couldn’t afford to dwell on right then still lingered. ‘ _ Wasn’t the timing of that  _ interesting _.’ _ The poor man he’d spun on paled, his eyes jumping between the warden and the Archmage, and elected to take the most reasonable route, stepping back against the wall. 

Caleb returned his black glare to the warden; whether his limited patience had been real or illusory all along, it was gone now, along with the neutral facade. “I am reminded sometimes that I can be  _ inexplicit _ in my wording,” he prefaced, each syllable clipped dangerously. “I was not threatening you, Herr Lorcan. When I do —” Caleb’s pause was intentional, the promise it conveyed, a threat in and of itself, moreso — “you will know.”

The tense silence hung heavy in the air, saturating the stones, shuddering dangerously with every flinch and rattle of breath.

Beau inhaled, shallow and quiet, her eyes darting between Caleb and the warden, too afraid to move for fear of snapping the tangible tension between the two. She ignored the uneasy glances Jester sent her from behind the cell bars. Beau didn’t have any answers for her, couldn’t say if this standoff was part of the plan, what that plan even was, or whether Caleb was at as great a risk of snapping as the frayed edges of his composure began to indicate.

Because this, this entire interaction, it was only slightly less cataclysmic as Beau had predicted. It was messy,  _ inelegant _ , and blunt, and in all the time she’d worked with him, Caleb was none of those things.

“Well, now that’s covered,” Fjord broke the silence almost hesitantly, polite tone and smile all too contradictory to the tone of the room. He glanced to Caleb with a questioning look, a look Caleb didn’t return; an attempt at a silent exchange that Beau couldn’t quite parse out. “While we’re all still being civil with one another, maybe it’s time to… ” He inclined his head towards the door. “Wrap this up?”

Still Caleb stood, leaning forward slightly like an attack dog straining at the leash, and gods help her, Beau wasn’t quite certain what was holding him back. She hoped it was his own damn sense — but had an inkling of a suspicion that it was something or  _ someone _ else with a great deal more influence than they knew on the other end of that tether. 

And the warden, for all his outrage and wounded pride, was a sensible man. Though it didn’t take much sense to arrive at the same concerns that she and at least Jester and maybe Fjord had arrived at regarding the likelihood of being immolated where he stood. And lacking both a death wish and a desire for a sudden and compulsory career change amid personal humiliation, it was only sensible to acquiesce. Watching him from the corner of her eye, she could almost track the thought process across the man’s aging face, through realization, resistance, anger and, ultimately, resignation.

“There will be paperwork,” Lorcan snapped. “But with—” he swallowed, ground his teeth, utter distaste evident in how he strained to even formulate the words — “I can arrange to have them released into your custody. Until the Lawmaster settles the matter.” A pause, seething with quiet contempt. “Would that be to your satisfaction?”

Caleb just blinked, didn’t move, didn’t speak, his expression as cold and void as the stones beneath their feet. 

Fjord turned to him, either in far too upbeat a mood or hiding a deep-seated concern for Caleb’s well-being in the prompting smile he treated him to, encouraging an answer. “Archmage?”

Caleb grunted something close to an affirmative, and nodded, little more than a harsh jerk of his chin.

“Thank fuck,” Beau muttered under her breath without thinking, finally able to breath again. She quickly cleared her throat to cover it. “Uh, unlock the cells and give us the room for a minute. You too,” she said, leveling a sharp look at the Righteous Brand hovering silently behind them. “Out. For just a minute. Please and thank you.”

Begrudgingly, the warden waived for the guard with the key ring to do so. And after an otherwise silent moment of fumbling for keys and scraping metal, doors were unlocked and shackles were removed, and the heavy oak door shut behind the last guard only too eager to escape. Just as slowly, the two Righteous Brand guards seemed to arrive at a mute agreement with one another and did as Beau requested, though she was certain they went no further than the door. 

She sighed and looked at Caleb, unmoved. Too pale in the garish torch lighting. “You,” she snapped, too exhausted for her words to have any venom. “Explain. Now, please.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Caleb took a shuddering breath, tried to recompose himself, to stave off the dark edges of his vision and the lightheadedness that threatened to bring him to the floor.

“Get out of my way, Fjord,” Jester rebuffed, and Caleb hadn’t noticed that Fjord had stepped away, had gone to her as soon as the cell doors had opened and shackles removed with a gentle attempt at comfort, not until she was hurrying around him. “Gods, can’t you people see he’s about the pass out?” 

There was a response to that, a general chorus of confused words and looks that blended together in the haze beyond what Caleb was immediately aware of. 

Then there was an arm slipped under his, and a firm hand on his elbow, Jester beside him, guiding him as he fumbled blindly for the stone pillar behind him for balance — “Step back, step back, and down —” and she was stronger than she looked, because despite his limbs’ unwillingness to cooperate he found himself lowered to the bench behind him. Another breath rattling in his chest, he couldn’t remember if the dull ache blooming across his ribs was worse than before or if it had simply been numb this whole while, and cold, and gods he was tired — 

 — “Hey, look here, look—“ Jester was crouching in front of him, lots of blue, lots of concern, a little fuzzy around the edges. “Shit, you guys, could y—  _ Fjord _ ,” she snapped, annoyed. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Fjord stumbled back a step, out of her way, but Caleb hadn’t noticed when he’d gotten closer. Caleb frowned. Focused. Confused. Why?

“Caleb?” Beauregard was pressing forward, shouldering Molly out of the way, dropping down to a knee beside Jester. “Hey, asshole, look at me. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” he breathed, though why he was out of breath he couldn’t say. He struggled to take in a steadier one. “For that. That was, that— I had to hurry that along.”

Jester sighed, batting his hands out of the way as he clumsily protested how she worked at the clasps of his coat, scowling at her efforts, a sound of frustration formed in the back of his throat. Jester paid it no mind, sending Beau a frustrated look instead. “I was  _ staring _ at you Beau, I was — why do you think I was looking at you like that?”

“I mean, what am I supposed to be, a—”

“Ladies, please, let’s just focus on the—” That was Molly, maybe. The voices began to blend together.

“—mind reader or something?” 

“— problem? Time for talking about making eyes at each other later.”

“Jester—” Yasha? She was too quiet, and his head was swimming. “— I don’t think he wants you to do that.”

“Well he’s clearly not okay! And I don’t think you needed to see that he’s  _ bleeding through the lining of his coat  _ to pick up on that,  _ Beau _ .”

“He’s  _ what _ ?”

“ _ Fuck _ —” and there was Fjord again, crouched down at Jester’s other side despite having already been rebuffed once. Then there was a hand on Caleb’s knee, jostling him gently for his attention. “Why didn’t you say something? Haven’t you seen a cleric yet?”

“I am fine,” Caleb muttered, but he wasn’t even able to complete the entire thought before Jester was tsking disapprovingly, shaking her head. 

“And I’m bright pink with polka dots.” She rolled her eyes. “Now can we please get a little space here you guys?” she asked again, impatiently pushing at Beau and Fjord before finally freeing the last clasp of his coat and carefully lifting the material away where it began to blood dark and slightly damp over already dark fabric. 

“I don’t get the joke,” he mumbled, resting his eyes for a moment.

So he didn’t see their reactions when Jester pushed his coat off his shoulders, exposing where he felt his shirt sticking too warm and wet against his side. But he heard them. And they weren’t quiet in their initial reactions, all melding together into something indecipherable. But he felt Fjord’s hand on his knee tighten reflexively, grounding in a way it surely wasn’t meant to be. Felt his other hand, calloused and careful but frustratingly insistent grabbing his wrist, forcing him still when he tried to shrug the rest of the way out of his coat. He frowned, huffing at the overreaction. 

“Oh  _ Caleb _ ,” Jester chastised, sad and soft and surely a touch dramatic. “You just let this go all night?” Disapproving.

“Do not speak to me like a child, Jester,” he warned, eyes fixed on a crack in the stonework between his boots, but all the threat had gone from his voice, and so it just sounded quiet. 

Her frown was all too reminiscent of the one Caduceus wore too often around him. And given the circumstances, he was all too afraid that he’d earned it for the same reason, and that Jester was far more insightful than she appeared mature. 

In lieu of a response, Jester whispered a quiet prayer and reached out, settling a gentle hand over is side. Immediately, soft warmth radiated out from her touch, easing the ache in his veins that burned acidic and sweeping away the haze that clung to his head. But the  _ relief  _ came with the first proper breath he managed to pull into his lungs, his side no longer burning with each attempt.

With his second, third, he carefully straightened in his seat, clarity returning to his senses gradually. He frowned, pressing his hand over his ribs gingerly at first, then harder, finding only a familiar, resonant ache. “Thank you, Jester,” he murmured, studying his hand as it came away damp and sticky with bright crimson. Admittedly, there was more blood than he’d expected, though still, he’d had worse, and could have dealt with this.

Jester huffed, her expression as her eyes darted between his hand, stained red, and his face a complicated one. “You’re welcome,” she said simply, rising to her feet again as Beau and Fjord awkwardly followed suit, Fjord’s grip on his wrist slipping away the only reminder that he’d still been holding it. Suddenly aware of the absence, it was all Caleb’s mind clung to for a moment. Still addled then. From the bloodloss. 

“When you stand up, do it slowly,” Jester instructed. Probably good advice. 

He flicked his wrist almost in annoyance at the blood staining his fingers and side, red dissipating entirely with the cool breeze of prestidigitation. Meticulously, he righted his coat on his shoulders, cast the spell once more to remove the dark blotches staining its side, tugged at each sleeve once, smoothed the collar, and began redoing each clasp carefully, purposefully. Any excuse to avoid lifting his gaze back to the room, the weight of the gazes on him nearly paralyzing if he gave it too much thought.

“Beauregard?” he asked, hesitantly, aware of her in his periphery but looking no more directly than that. She hummed an acknowledgement. “Thank you for speaking with the warden.”

“Not very successfully,” she admitted, begrudging. And this was not the conversation she wanted to be having, not by the tone of it, not by the way she’d been looking at him all night when she thought he wasn’t watching. But it was the one they were having now. In this place. Surrounded by these people.

“But I needed time first, which you provided,” he intoned, carefully rising to his feet again, cautious of the slight twinge in his side, but finding his legs steady beneath him and his head clear. He finally looked up to meet her gaze. “So I am thanking you regardless.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before turning to look at the others. “As for the rest of you, I have only an apology. You should not have been brought into this, much less brought here.”

His eyes flitted to Fjord cautiously, but he remained silent, his eyes pensive. But Molly had no such reservations. 

“Maybe, rather than apologize, which seems fairly useless at this point,” he proposed, tail flicking behind him, “you could explain just a little of what  _ the fuck  _ is going on? Is someone trying to kill you, Caleb?” he asked.

And, well, he supposed this would happen eventually, though he’d rather address it elsewhere. Caleb sighed, smoothing his hands over the front of his coat needlessly. “Always, Mollymauk. Though that is beside the point, and I believe, not quite what you are asking.”

“Was someone trying to kill you last night?” Yasha asked, more to the point.

He paused, considered it. “I do not know,” he admitted. “On the one hand, it seemed like the first individual I interrupted was looking for something. And they waited to enter until I had left. I only returned because they tripped an alarm.”

“And on the other hand?” Fjord asked. “Because to be frank,” he said, a note of steel to his voice as he indicated to where the blood had just been moments ago, “it seemed like they were trying to kill you.”

“On the other,” he sighed, his eyes wandering along the seams in the masonry of the far wall. “In the last few hours, I received reports that several nobles, other officials and persons of note were found dead throughout the night and in the early hours. Five of them, in three different cities including the capital and Zadash.”

“Wait,” Beau said, her brow furrowed at the new information. “Who died here?”

He looked up at her. “Professor Miria Lywin,” he intoned, “here, in one of the wings of this prison.”

“ _ What _ ,” she snapped, swearing as the rest of the room took another beat for the name to click. “She’s– they got to her that quickly?”

“Yes,” Caleb agreed, and he understood her frustration, he did. But he was too tired, and too much time had allowed the information to settle to feel it still. “And to Lord Ver’sys, in Rexxentrum.”

“Aw, shit,” Jester sighed. “I mean I didn’t like the guy, he was a total ass, but aw _ shit _ , you know?”

That brought a ghost of a smile to the corner of Caleb’s mouth. He huffed, begrudgingly agreeing. “I do, yes.” 

There was plenty more to be said, and far more articulately, on how they were closing ranks, whoever  _ they  _ were. They, who had sent assassins to carry out the evening’s killings, with all reports meeting the same description. And, based on the hilt design Caleb had seen and since returned to confirm, the five-sickled star,  _ they  _ had a reach long enough to employ the Myriad, largely extinct within the Empire, as Caleb well knew. But he needed to think. And rest. But mostly think.

“Maybe this is something we shouldn’t discuss here,” Fjord posited, too assertive to be a question.

“Quite,” Caleb agreed.

“Does that mean you’ll be open to discussing it elsewhere?” Molly asked, and Caleb did not need to track the snap of his tail nor how he stood, arms crossed and hip cocked to the side to hear the challenge in his voice. The resistance to being kept out of the loop.

He swallowed, forcing himself not to cross his arms, to keep them at his side. The look Beau gave him was an interesting one. Withholding judgement. “Perhaps. Elsewhere, yes. I need–” he sighed, rubbed his eyes. “I need to think…” 

“Let’s just start by getting out of here,” Beau added, taking some of the burden of the conversation. “And I don’t think anyone’s gotten any shut-eye tonight so we can reconvene in the afternoon, maybe –”

“I don’t think we should go back to the Pillow Trove,” Jester interrupted abruptly.

Caleb paused, turning to look at her. “Pardon?”

“I mean, don’t you think…” Her brow furrowed, consideration deepening into confusion, pivoting to give Fjord an odd look. “You didn’t tell him?” she asked, accusatory in her surprise.

And Fjord, he looked sheepish, suddenly. “There was a lot going on, okay? I didn’t quite, uh, didn’t quite get to that.”

Jester sighed, glancing between Beau and himself. “We were being followed,” she explained curtly. And he registered the words. And knew he ought to feel something more, something worse, than the numb sensation that left him hollow now. But all he could do was look, and listen, heart sinking in his chest. “By at least one person that we saw. And we tried to catch them, but then there was a whole thing, and also we caused something of a ruckus with the city guards – real sorry about that by the way,” she added quickly. “But then we saw the fire and that’s why we showed up.”

“And Caleb,” Jester continued in the silence that followed. “The person following us? They looked a whole lot like the ones maybe trying to kill you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was odd, this pocket dimension of Caleb’s. 

The walls were firm enough and the kitchen stock was definitely real, but the strange ethereal servants that drifted from room to room whenever summoned were difficult to adjust to. And the ink-black dimensionless space floating, twisting just outside the windows – maybe inches away, even tangible, in arms reach, or maybe as far away, as vast as the night sky – made getting a sense of the space, of the location of the rooms in relation to one another, of how the staircases connected, difficult to wrap his head around. It was boundless. Like he had no real way of telling how big the place was, if it even had limits.

The central keep – the main hall, the kitchens and dining room, living quarters, the wing of guest bedrooms – Fjord had mapped that out well enough. From what little Caleb had the energy to explain, his gaze distant and hollow the whole while, and based on the mindless familiarity with which he described it, Fjord reckoned that it was based off a real building, perhaps even Caleb’s home in Rexxentrum. If not for the keep’s incomprehensibility, with its ethereal servant staff and the voids beyond the window curtains, he might have suspected they’d simply entered a portal to Rexxentrum.

It wasn’t what anyone might envision if picturing where the widely feared Archmage of Domestic Inquiry lived, but it was exactly what Fjord expected. The decor was modest, but it was not austere or worse yet sinister by any means. It’s accents were tasteful, all detailed wood carvings and woven tapestries rather than gold or silver gilded baubles. The enchanted orbs of light in their sconces where low and warmly tinted. Nearly every room had a hearth, the flames humming low over a glowing bed of coals as if they had just been tended, and the cold grey masonry was offset by rich oak and the thick furs that lay draped over the floors and walls. And the library Fjord had stumbled into, with its vaulted ceilings and towering stacks, was something else entirely. 

For all its oddity, Fjord quite liked the keep they had entered through the gossamer, vanishing doorway in a non-charred portion of the manor. It was comfortable, and quiet. And he could very much image Caleb curled up with a book and a blanket in the small reading nook in the corner of the drawing room. 

But he did not find Caleb in the reading nook in the drawing room. Nor in the library. Nor the master bedroom he’d wandered into. Nor any place between, any place Fjord hoped he might find him. And with each Caleb-shaped vacancy, it left the temperature of the stones feeling just a little colder.

He’d circled back to the library, unintentionally at first, not yet grasping how the hallways linked up. But without much elsewhere to look, Fjord found himself wandering between the stacks, the dark mahogany glossy under warmly hued lamp light. Still, this room more than any of the others felt  _ off _ , felt recreated more than any of the others. After distracting himself with the thought for long enough, Fjord put it down to the smell. The library didn’t smell like old leather, like treated parchment and ink. 

It was a lonely feeling the absence invoked. And it made Caleb feel further away than ever.

Fjord huffed in frustration, staring at the spines of the tomes in front of his eyes without seeing a single word or glyph on them. 

He was exhausted, more so than he could ever recall feeling before. And he wasn’t alone in that. Yet rather than collapse into the beds the ghostly servants had prepared for them, they had each still found their way down to the kitchens, one after another. First himself, then Jester, even Beau, and then Molly and Yasha wandering in together in short succession. There was a comforting sort of comradery to be found around the small table in the corner, or perched on the counters, or raiding the larder. Found in the shared, heavy silence and the coffee that scalded more than it tasted like anything. 

But then Jester had cleared her throat all pointedly like that. As if her staring at him hadn’t been enough.

_ “Do you think Caleb just…  went to bed? I hope he got something to eat. He should really probably eat something…”  _

_ Beau snorted at that from where she sat on the counter, her heels kicking rhythmically against the cupboard below. “Nah.” She shook her head. “He’s not sleeping.”  _

_ She didn’t offer an explanation as to how she knew that, or how she sounded so confident in her answer. But that sounded about right, regardless. _

_ By the purse of her lips, Jester believed it, but didn’t approve. The silence they had lapsed back into didn’t hold for long. “Well, if he’s not going to rest, someone should bring him some food so at least he eats.” Her fingers tapping the table, she sent Fjord a sidelong look.  _

_ He ignored her, eyes steadfast ahead. It stopped though when Beau made another disgruntled sound, rolling her eyes. “He’s a grown ass adult. He can feed himself.” _

_ Jester sighed, loudly. “Well then maybe someone should just go find him and tell him we’re all down here, so he might as well join us and we’ll be miserable together. And also so he can eat something.” If it were possible, the  _ look  _ she sent Fjord was even more direct and purposeful.  _

_ He stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping against the stones. “Fine,” he said. Before Jester got any worse. Before anyone else cared to look up from the floor or the steaming mugs in front of their noses and wonder why the fuck she was looking at  _ him  _ of all people like that. “Fine.” _

And so he’d left the room, too tired to storm out properly but dragging his feet all the same, despite and because of Jester’s grin. 

But the gods hated him, or Uk’atoa was secretly trying to kill him again, or something, because he’d gotten lost twice, already an hour had passed, and the longer he went without finding any trace of Caleb, the longer he had to convince himself that Caleb had either left the pocket dimension he’d magicked up altogether or, worse, was simply avoiding him. The others had probably just gone to bed by now. Hell,  _ Caleb  _ had probably just gone to bed. And here he was looking at dusty books.

He reached out to pull one from the shelf, any book, not looking or caring which. The binding was old and worn in his hands, brown leather with ornate brass caps on the corners, and titled with a scrawl he didn’t recognize. Something like Elvish, but it was a little sharper than – 

“I did not think you much a reader.”

Fjord nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden, though admittedly soft disruption of the silence. He jerked his head up in the direction of the voice, spinning around to find him, to find  _ Caleb _ , standing at the end of the row. 

Fjord stood frozen, staring wide-eyed, opening and closing his mouth a few times but the words didn’t come. The bags under Caleb’s eyes were darker, more pronounced and not very well hidden behind the hair that had fallen loose from its tie to hang about Caleb’s face. His coat was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the tail untucked. He looked disheveled, tired, though at least his complexion had recovered, the knowledge he was no longer at risk of bleeding out a small comfort.

Caleb drifted forward a few paces, hesitant in how he approached Fjord, his eyes flickering between the book in his hands and about halfway to his face, not quite making eye contact. “Certainly not of books in languages you do not know,” he mused, a small half-smile almost hidden behind the hair that fell forward in his face. 

“Remind me which language that is?” Fjord asked, teasing lightly as he lifted the book enough for Caleb to see the cover in the low light. He stood still as Caleb came nearer, too conscious of the careful distance Caleb had kept to himself that morning to move any closer, too sure that the wrong step would send him away. “You’ll have to forgive me. Unlike my present company, I don’t speak a dozen languages.”

Caleb hummed a disapproving note, but only barely, at the hyperbole. The corner of his mouth ticked up in wry amusement. “Sylvan.” He ignored the later remark. Slowly, Caleb came to a stop close enough to extend his hand for the book, which Fjord passed over without comment. Caleb ran his fingers lightly over the spine, thumbing over the brass corners, studying the tome with a nervous intensity that was only a means continue avoiding meeting Fjord’s eyes.

“So, I got lost,” Fjord admitted, leaning on his hip against the shelves. “What’s your excuse?”

Caleb huffed under his breath, shaking his head. “The library is big. It is not  _ that  _ big.”

“Not lost in the library,” he corrected, rolling his eyes. “In this – this,” he motioned around them at the walls of the room. “Whatever this place you made is.”

“Ah.” Caleb nodded, the guilt coloring his eyes making Fjord’s insides lurch. “Perhaps I can assist you in finding what you are looking for?” he asked, a quiet remedy.

“Nah.” Fjord shook his head, a soft smile hitching the corner of his mouth. “I just found him.”

Caleb blinked, realization dawning like the flush that spread high over his cheekbones. He ducked his head, loose hair falling in a tangled curtain in front of his eyes. “I was, ah, I was in the study.”

Fjord shifted forward, just a step, unable to help it. Close enough to lift a hand to brush the hair falling in Caleb’s eyes away, tucking it behind his ear. And when Caleb looked up, surprised but not moving away, the part of his lips and furrow of his brow a silent question as he met Fjord’s gaze, it was worth it. When he turned into the touch as Fjord’s hand came down to cradle the side of his jaw, a million times over, it was worth it.

“Jester wanted me to remind you to eat something,” Fjord murmured. “Or barring that, to remind you to try an’ sleep.” Caleb frowned, nose wrinkled adorably, about to speak, to protest. “But both of those seeming unlikely, then to tell you to come down and join the rest of us so we can be “miserable together,” I think she put it.”

Caleb sighed, setting the book aside and dropping his head against Fjord’s shoulder as Fjord shifted closer. “Am I so predictable?” he mumbled, almost too quiet to catch.

He laughed, a soft huff of breath at the question, his hand sliding from where it rested against Caleb’s shoulder to tangle in his hair, gently freeing it from his hair tie. “If I could’ve found the study, it’s the first place I would’ve looked.” Caleb chuckled, low and quiet, but still, at the light pressure of Caleb’s hand against his sternum, Fjord dropped the arm that had snaked around his waist, letting him back away. 

“That is not even fair,” he scolded ineffectively, lifting a hand to Fjord’s wrist to gently pull his hand away from where it cradled the back of his neck. “You would not say that except for – for–” 

Caleb trailed off, his brows drawn together tightly, mouth parted in confusion, staring at what Fjord wasn’t sure until, until he looked down –

“No, no,” Fjord hushed against Caleb’s temple as he snatched his own hand away, reminded too late of the irritated scalded marks left by the flames across the backs of his knuckles, marks Caleb hadn’t yet seen. He wrapped his arms around Caleb’s waist, running a hand up and down his spine, soothing. “Please. Please, darling. Don’t.”

“Fjord –” Caleb voice was choked, stretched thin with guilt, wracked with grief. He sucked in a breath, shuddering in Fjord’s arms, the floodwalls that had been so carefully constructed, and steadily, brutally chipped away over the past twenty-four hours teetering dangerously close to failure.

And Fjord knew it was coming. Knew it would be bad when it did. One could only push on for so long, through the mire of exhaustion, pain and  _ effort _ . The body had limits. And Caleb had been pushing his dangerously.

“I know,” he assured, tucking Caleb closer, ignoring the weak efforts to push against his chest, to pull away. “But it’s my fault. I knew what would happen. I didn’t care. My fault,” he repeated the words quietly against the shell of Caleb’s ear, his shudders turning to full body quakes as Caleb turned his face damp against the crook of Fjord’s shoulder. “You haven’t hurt me, love. You haven’t.”

Caleb laughed, a harsh, humorless sound grating in his throat. “You say that,” he accused, shaking his head, pulling away hard enough that Fjord let him go, quietly pleading in the look he gave him to stay. Caleb stumbled back, half turned away as he quickly wiped his face against his sleeve, clearing his throat before he looked back to Fjord. “You say that as if you know me.”

Fjord’s heart plummeted in his chest. “Cay, please,” he reasoned, reaching out again, but Caleb shied away. “You’re tired, you’ve been through a lot. We  _ all  _ have _.  _ You’re not thinking right –” 

“Do  _ not  _ –” He shook his head violently, jaw set. “Do not tell me that. All I do is  _ think _ , Fjord. I have  _ been _ thinking. About you, about the clever man with the clever mouth, with his enchanted blade and strange magic he claims to not understand but exercises at will,” he snapped. He sucked in a sharp breath. “The man who will not even speak to me with his real voice.”

Silence. It sounded loud in Fjord’s ears, sounded like the panicked thunder of his own heart in his chest, ringing in his ears with the clash of cold steel in Caleb’s words. There was cotton in his mouth, cotton in his head. Unable to react. To move. Only to crumble.

“Caleb,” he choked, cold fear gripping at his heart. He should have seen it coming. Should have been more prepared than he was. It was his own fault. His own – “I can explain, please just let me explain.”

“You  _ have  _ to understand,” Caleb pleaded, nearly sobbed, holding back tears with a shaking breath. “I am –” he couldn’t quite get enough breath in his lungs, couldn’t quite get enough breath under the words, clinging to the edge of the shelving at his side like it was the only thing supporting him. “I am having a very, a difficult time grasping what is  _ real  _ today. And I need –  _ I need  _ –” His words died strangled on a breathless gasp, Caleb’s expression twisted in pain and endless frustration, so clearly directed inward. 

Fjord started forward, couldn’t speak, but he couldn’t  _ not _ , the brittle shards inside his chest threatening to snap and splinter.

Caleb slowly slid down to the floor, his back against the shelves, breathes coming too quick, too shallow. And Fjord was right there alongside him, Caleb’s fingers twisting desperate in the front of his tunic. 

“Anything,” he promised, repeated, murmuring over and over again, the honest to gods truth and yet still not nearly enough. “What do you need, love? Tell me. I’ll give it if I can, I swear…”

Caleb shuddered, grabbing at the arms wrapped around his shoulders, clinging tightly, doubled over on himself. “I need you to be  _ real _ ,” he whispered into the privacy of Fjord’s shoulder, voice raw and cracking. Repeated, a desperate, pleading, guilt-ridden and shamefaced mantra all at once. Caleb’s shoulders shook, tears coming properly now, fueled by sheer exhaustion but betraying something underneath that had swelled and slammed against already fractured floodwalls. And Fjord bore the brunt of it, crashing against his chest with a physical force that threatened to overwhelm.

_ ‘He’d done this.’ _

“I need – I need you to be real,” Caleb whispered, utterly wrecked. He slumped against him, barely kept upright but for Fjord’s arms pulling him protectively against his chest where they sat. Collapsed on the library floor, hidden away between the stacks. 

_ ‘Himself. With all the fucking lies and half-truths.’ _

“Just… for a minute. Just for now…” he asked, voice fading out, exhaustion pushed back and held at bay for so long finally taking its toll.

And in the stillness of the library, in the spaces between the ragged breaths easing slowly in Caleb’s chest, and the soft, slowing beat behind Caleb’s sternum, Fjord learned how quietly, how painfully a heart could break.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta give Mr. Hozier some of the credit for Caleb's current feelings: https://open.spotify.com/album/4TiFORDt6OAJy3BMvqDLVq


	18. take the heart (you thought you had)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a long time coming. And not just because this semester's been a bitch and a half. 
> 
> Enjoy a little insight into the naming of the fic.

He breathed in. Deep. Even. Felt Caleb’s breath match his own. Felt Caleb’s heartbeat, steady, slow. A consistent rhythm as Caleb lay curled into his side, an arm draped over Fjord’s middle, head pillowed on his shoulder. The same place where he had collapsed after Fjord managed to get them only as far as the couch within the study, hidden away in the corner of the library. And only after directing a spectral servant to show him where he could find it. Only after Caleb had gone entirely unresponsive. And not cold like before; somehow, it had been worse.

Fjord laid on his back, running his fingers through Caleb’s hair, brushing it from his face. It felt ordinary somehow, Caleb dozing off tucked against his side. The man didn’t sleep. At least, not nearly enough. But at the same time, at the very same time he listened to Caleb’s heart beating in time with his own, at the same time he felt him warm and soft under his fingertips, what should have felt concrete and tangible had never felt like more of a fantasy. A fragile thing, paper thin, at any moment about to slip through his fingers. And all because he’d let it. 

Fjord stared blearily at the wooden beams running across the ceiling. He half expected the old timber to start swaying and creaking a familiar tune of the sea. And as he lay there, mind wandering but incapable of wandering too far beyond the man half draped over his chest, Fjord couldn’t help but indulge in it. The fantasy. 

It would be so much simpler. To go south. To take Caleb with him, away from strange politics and even stranger threats. 

To go home. 

Except home wasn’t as simple as a ship, an ocean, a familiar map of stars. It wasn’t quite something to return to. Home certainly wasn’t Darktow; Fjord would be fine if he never set foot on the isle again.  _ Home _ was the people he’d taken with him, the people he’d found, and maybe one day, it would be someplace a little smaller, a little quieter. 

Hell, even his “maybe one day” was a fantasy. He couldn’t escape it.

Caleb’s home was, if not Rexxentrum, then with Beau and Nott. Even if he would leave, Fjord couldn’t imagine him leaving them behind; Beau could be… call it rough around the edges, and Nott was a damn menace, but even Fjord and his company couldn’t help but be just a little fond of them by now. But on top of that, Fjord would be foolish to think that a ship, even his, could outrun what Caleb would be escaping from. 

Then there was the matter of what Caleb would be leaving. Fjord understood a sense of duty to family, to one’s own. But he didn’t think he would ever understand an obligation – just as fierce – to nation or empire. Particularly not when the very project and people he was so damn invested in did so very little to deserve it. 

But Caleb had plans, had goals, and Fjord was only half certain he knew what they were anymore.

So Caleb slept, the sort of peaceful that quieted the mind only in the wake of succumbing to sheer exhaustion, and Fjord did too. For a while, at least, if more than a bit uneasily, and only until half-formed plans and anxieties wound their tendrils tight around his lungs and this deeply rooted, dark-stained anger sunk its claws into him, chasing the possibility of any further rest away. 

It couldn’t have been past six in the evening. The same day Caleb had retrieved them from Zadash’s prison. The day after someone had tried to kill him.

That realization was still settling, heavier, with more vitriol than Fjord might’ve liked.

Angry heat, black as tar and creeping just as slowly, threatened to encompass his heart again, dark tendrils like thorn-covered vines winding through and around his ribs. They anchored there in his chest, felt like they took root  _ deeper  _ than that, the sting of them refusing to fade.

Fjord drew in a shuddering breath. He swept his hand over the curve of Caleb’s shoulder, tracing nonsense patterns with the gentle drag of his fingertips over the rumpled fabric of his shirt, trailing down the arm slung over his middle to rest over Caleb’s hand where it lay just below his sternum. It was reassuring for himself if nothing else. That Caleb was here. Breathing. Warm. Alive.  _ Still alive _ .

But focusing now on Caleb’s slow, steady breaths ghosting over his collar to remind himself of that, to ease the sickening heat curling inside his chest, it wasn’t the same. No longer so slow maybe, nor quite so regular. Waking then, or already awake, for gods knew how long, unwilling to face the conversation looming overhead with all the threat and thunder of a slowly encroaching storm. 

Fjord sighed, unwilling or unable to fully resign himself to what he expected would happen by pulling his hands off of Caleb, letting him be. Not quite willing to let him slip through his fingers  _ that  _ easily. But he would’ve been lying if he pretended he knew what to do either. 

For as much as he tried to ease himself through Caleb’s defenses, it wasn’t like he’d given Caleb much reason to let him. It had been selfish of him, he’d come to decide after so long staring up at the rafters, to expect trust to work the same way for Caleb. Expecting  _ caring  _ to be enough. He knew better. He knew Caleb better. 

And so he couldn’t help but replay that conversation, from after that first night, that first time, over and over again whenever he closed his eyes. In bed where they’d fallen, clumsy haste still evident in the rumpled and ruined clothing abandoned across the floor and the dark bruises blooming across their skin. When heat turned lethargic and sweat had yet to fully dry. When Caleb was barely even able to look at his face, much less make eye contact. But at the same time not able or willing to walk away.

It had felt then something like it did now. 

Was it days ago? Weeks? Months? Surely not that long, but Fjord truly couldn’t say. It was different, both the work of a second and stretched into years. But he remembered the ache in his chest fiercely, the fear that he’d mistepped, pushed too far, that Caleb would bolt, like the ache he felt now.

_ “Sometimes you talk, and I think you forget that I’m –”   _ Fjord had stopped himself short, too afraid of the words about to spill carelessly from his tongue. Too much, or too forward.  _ “People don’t talk like that to each other.” _

_ “Like what?”  _ He remembered Caleb’s frown, confused not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he refused to make assumptions. He hesitated for the same reason, looking so blatantly for what Fjord wanted, careful not to say too much before he knew what he expected, but not finding it, because gods bless him, Caleb was looking for motive in all the wrong places. 

_ “Like everything’s a compromise…”  _ A negotiation, more like. Like he never expected to receive just because another wanted to give. Like if he hadn’t fought for it, tooth and nail, he couldn’t trust it not to spoil in the end. “ _ You know I’d like for you to be able to trust me, right?”  _ Naive. Fjord saw that now, the realization turning over and over until his gut was in knots. 

Caleb’s confusion had only multiplied. And that… it was somehow worse — worse than if he were merely taken aback, worse even than if he had laughed in Fjord’s face — worse to not seem to understand the meaning of the word, trust.

_ “I think… that means something different to you and I.” _

Caleb had told him, hadn’t he? He’d  _ told him.  _ And Fjord hadn’t been listening, too desperate to break past Caleb’s walls and prove that how he felt, how he hoped Caleb felt, was  _ enough _ . While never letting Caleb close enough to the truth to give him reason to believe it. 

His hand buried in Caleb’s hair dragged blunted claws down to the nape of his neck, coming to rest there, his thumb idly rubbing small circles over soft skin. Still he stared at the rafters, unable to look down even as he felt Caleb shift against him, felt the loose fist just below his sternum clench tighter in the fabric of his shirt. 

“Caleb?” he asked, hesitant. Quiet. His voice sticking in his throat, his own heartbeat in his ears. But it was  _ his voice.  _ Intentionally, to Caleb, for the first time.

No response, other than maybe the slight falter in Caleb’s breath, the muscles in his jaw jumping, almost a flinch, or else Fjord’s imagination. 

He cleared his throat, running his fingers through Caleb’s hair again, as he would until Caleb told him to stop. To leave. Or until Caleb himself left. Whichever came first. 

“You know I – I didn’t plan on it, speaking that way, with that voice,” he admitted, sounding fragile, brittle, even in his own ears. “I know that sounds crazy.  _ I  _ sound crazy,” he laughed, humorless and harsh, because what was the alternative. He hadn’t even been sure of what he was saying when he began speaking, but now he’d opened his mouth, words were pouring out almost unbidden. If Caleb was going to leave, he at least needed to explain before he did. He owed him that. 

A breath, short and sharp, and he continued. “I owe you an explanation, but I’m afraid I don’t have a very good one,” he said, clearing his throat. “I, ah, you just swept into that room like you did,  _ looking  _ like you did… and the only thing that w– that I knew about you, this  _ archmage _ that we were meeting in the middle of the Empire, hundreds of miles from anything we knew, from anything  _ safe _ , was your reputation. All the stories,” he admitted, his insides in knots, the guilt overpowering, knowing what he did now of the truth that was lacking from that reputation, and from those stories. 

“I fell back into old habits,” he rasped, heart racing. “I’m not trying to justify it, just, if anyone could understand being who you have to be to –” He stopped, words not cooperating. “I don’t expect you to understand, I just– You might. And for a time, for a long time,” he explained, and if his voice was shaking, Caleb still gave no indication he heard. “I wasn’t exactly myself.”

It was impossible to explain any of it without telling all of it, beginning with Vandran, who he was before Vandran, where he came from, though hardly remarkable. So he did, or at least tried to, his rambling gradually piecing together a story, thankfully becoming more coherent, less panicked as the minutes strung themselves together. As he had time to collect himself.

Fjord had just been getting his legs under him on the water. Then there was the explosion, the shipwreck, washing back up on Darktow alive somehow, regardless of how far from port they’d gone down. Finding that damn sword, deciding to take it with him. Tracking down answers, figuring out what had happened. It was a great deal of anger, and confusion. And that guy, the one Fjord started wearing, he was louder, more confident, maybe a bit too reckless, a bit more callous at times, “but people listened,” he continued, a weak justification. He was no one. But suddenly, they listened.

“Gods it sounds pathetic, but they did,” he reiterated, sounding small between the still air and high ceilings. He should have felt relief, relief to finally be able to say it, to say any of it, raw and aching in his chest. Instead there was only doubt, pouring in on all sides like waves crashing over a deck, overwhelming, making each breath shake. 

It was ironic perhaps, that all of  _ that _ , about Vandran, about  _ himself _ , the lies and the truth, was easier to explain than the eldritch horror part of the story that he had no control over. He wasn’t Caleb. He wasn’t as smart, didn’t understand magic or the abilities he had, not beyond the gut instinct that told him how to reach for them. He didn’t have the answers Caleb would want, and what he could explain… it didn’t sound good. And yet, that was the part his story was quickly approaching.

“But, uh, then you know, I fell in with Jes, and Molly and Yasha soon after, and, ah,” he laughed, dry and painful. “They saw right through me and my bullshit. Even beside the – everything with Vandran, it’s fucking hard to hide what’s going on when an eldritch nightmare starts waking you up with lungfuls of sea water.”

He felt Caleb tense against him, his first reaction to anything Fjord had said. Automatically, before he could think any better of it, Fjord glanced down to see him: eyes open and very much awake, cheek pillowed on Fjord’s shoulder still, listening intently with that pinched look Fjord couldn’t help but be fond of, his brow furrowed in thought or worry or both, staring down at the place his fingers rested lightly over Fjord’s sternum. Caleb’s only acknowledgement of the pause in Fjord’s story was when his fingertips begin tracing meaningless comforts over Fjord’s sternum. Kind, perhaps, but doing very little to quell the panicked beat of his heart against the wall of his ribcage.

As grounding as it was, Fjord’s instinct was to brush Caleb’s hand away gently. He pulled his own hands away, moving to sit up. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. He didn’t speak, knew his voice would shake. He considered disentangling himself and rising from the couch entirely. Considered pacing away some of the anxiety humming through his veins. Considered giving Caleb space to figure out what he wanted. 

Fjord was halfway to sitting when Caleb made a quiet sound of protest, the arm that had been draped over Fjord’s chest wrapping more possessively around his middle, gently tugging him back down. “Fjord,” Caleb murmured, low, his voice rough with sleep. Fjord froze. Caleb shifted closer, pushing himself up on an elbow to press his forehead against Fjord’s shoulder, face hidden from view. “Please,” he rasped, almost too quiet to hear. “Don’t.”

Seconds or minutes, Fjord hesitated there, silence just as loud as the roar of his blood behind his ears. Caleb didn’t lift his face, didn’t meet his gaze, but reached blindly for Fjord’s hand, fumbling for it, but squeezing gently. It made Fjord’s heart seize, emotion thick and cloying in his throat, heat welling damp in his eyes. 

A harsh bark tore at his throat, stealing the air from his lungs before it escaped in a sob. He heard Caleb sigh, a quiet note of disapproval. “ _ Liebling _ .” He felt as Caleb’s weight lifted from his side, shifting back to kneel in front of him as Fjord awkwardly pushed himself up to sit, folding his legs awkwardly under him, feeling like he was taking up too much space. Feeling like he’d rather like to disappear altogether. He dutifully glared at the carpet, looking away that Caleb might ignore the dampness to his eyes as he struggled to steady his breaths, to rein himself back in.

Caleb was quiet a moment, then, “You do not need to explain anything to me,  _ Liebling _ ,” he murmured, low with regret. “I –” He stopped, expression complicated. “I am sorry already to have demanded so much.”

“No,” Fjord insisted automatically, quickly scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes, hurriedly clearing his throat. “You had every right. I should’ve – I was the one who, I –” The words caught in his throat, tangled, inadequate. The knot in his stomach pulled tighter.

Caleb exhaled deeply, mouth pursed and brow tense in a quietly pained frown. Tired. But not frustrated. Or at least, not with Fjord. When Fjord dared to lift his gaze from the ground, Caleb’s eyes were somber. “There is not enough blame to go around for you to claim it all for yourself, Fjord.” Caleb offered the smallest hint of a wry smile, nothing more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth that disappeared quickly, replaced by earnest sincerity. “That would be selfish of you.”

Fjord shook his head, his eyes drifting over Caleb’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes directly. “You’re a goddamn hypocrite, Widogast,” he accused, a harsh whisper, his voice rough and on the verge of failing.

“That makes two of us,” Caleb said gently, not a trace of anything sharp behind the words. Yet his eyes were mournful and his face had suddenly aged with guilt. “I did not  _ ask you _ , Fjord,” Caleb said, intensely critical. “I did not ask. No matter how I dwelled upon it or what questions I had. And then rather than ask, I subjected you to my–” His jaw clenched tight, hand waving before him not a dismissal of his behavior but rather a failure to categorize it, to give it a name. Regret was ever more evident in the deep crease in his brow. 

“I am sorry,” he said quietly, his words faltering as he continued. “Last night, I was not –” he stopped, swallowed, teeth grinding together, forcing himself to make fleeting eye contact with Fjord. “I am not well, Fjord. Not entirely.” His eyes drifted away. “Not always.”

Fjord let himself breathe out, breathe in, unsure what to make of the admission or the silence that followed it, quiet candor weighing heavily on his shoulders. “I know,” he said, before he knew where the words came from, but it was true. After a few seconds’ trepidation, he reached out for Caleb. His hand settled over his wrist gently, sweeping the pad of his thumb over the soft, pale skin – and delicate scarred latticework that Caleb had never acknowledged, that Fjord had never indicated he’d noticed – along its inside. “I think it’d be a miracle if any of us were.”

Caleb didn’t pull his wrist away, but his fingers curled into a fist, his mouth a hard line. “But that is not an excuse for having turned on you in the manner I did.” He frowned, eyes dancing about uneasily. “I – I  _ heard  _ you, Fjord,” he said, as one does a promise. “And I will listen. I would  _ like _ to,” he continued, voice stretched thin, talking all the more quickly as he continued, staring down at his hands. They were trembling. “And I am  _ worried  _ for you, knowing what little I do and what little I have pieced together about this – about the source of your arcane abilities. But I am not trying nor eager to chase you away either, no matter how it may seem or how I frighten myself because of it,” he admitted, voice shaking. “And for the record,” he emphasized, desperately ernest, “I like this voice. And I–” 

Whatever it was holding him frozen, breathless, it snapped. Fjord was moving closer, kneeling before Caleb, his hands cradling the other man’s face, tilted up to look at him. Caleb’s blue eyes went wide, his words coming to a stuttering end. Confused, but looking up at Fjord with an openness, vulnerability that raked Fjord’s heart. He didn’t know what he was doing, any coherent thoughts replaced by Caleb’s words, echoing over and over again. Replaced by the mere _possibility_ that seized his heart like hope. So in the absence of coherent thought, or plan, there was only _need_ and _want_ , and it was Caleb, _Caleb_ on both counts, so there he was. Looking down into blue irises with a feeling a bit like falling.

Caleb’s eyes flickered over his face, searching for answers. “Fjord?” he whispered, uncertain but not untrusting.

“You said,” Fjord rasped, pausing to force a breath into his lungs, the calloused pads of his thumbs sweeping lightly over Caleb’s cheekbones. “You said you needed me to  _ be real _ ,” he recalled, voice cracking, something in his chest lurching painfully at the memory. He felt his own expression etched deep with sorrow and regret.

Caleb’s eyes darted away, mouth twisting with distaste or something more loathsome, his shoulders turning in on himself. “Ignore what I said,” he muttered harshly. “I was in no state –”

“I won’t,” Fjord interrupted, shaking his head. “You know what you said. You might regret you said it, but it’s true. And it’s _ my fault _ ,” he whispered, shaking his head, more confident in that than anything else he’d said so far. “But Caleb I swear –”

“No, no,” Caleb was mumbling, wringing his hands uncomfortably as he tried to turn away, to look away, but Fjord was having none of it. Not after so long. Not after everything. He was tired of almosts, of maybe fantasies.

“I swear, Caleb, this is me,” Fjord continued, even if his voice shook, even if it still sounded foreign. He dropped one of his hands from the side of Caleb’s face only to take one of Caleb’s hands in his own, pressing Caleb’s palm to Fjord’s own chest despite his weak protests. “I swear, on anything I’ve got left to swear on,” he promised, and Caleb, even for just a moment, stopped trying to pull away, his hand trapped, trembling between Fjord’s larger one and his sternum, over his heart. “I don’t have any ulterior motives here,” Fjord laughed, breathless, unable to contain the pressure expanding between his ribs, threatening to overwhelm. “I don’t. This is –” he squeezed Caleb’s hand, knowing he felt Fjord’s heart racing beneath it– “this is it. I don’t have any more illusions. And I don’t know how to prove that it’s – that  _ I’m _ here and this is  _ real _ except for this, showing you…” 

Fjord shook his head, with one hand holding Caleb’s, trembling, over his heart, the other curling around to the back of Caleb’s neck, pulling him closer, pressing their foreheads together. Caleb sucked in a shallow breath, pressing his eyes closed tight. “I do not – I do not follow,” he rasped, so quietly it hurt, even as his fingers curled tighter in the worn cotton of Fjord’s shirt. 

“I think you do,” Fjord said, his breath coming just as shallow and quick, and gods he was dizzy with it. “You’re smart. Smarter than me. You do.”

“ _ Nein _ ,” he repeated, smaller, the hand which was not trapped against Fjord’s chest gripping tight around Fjord’s wrist. He shook his head, insistent, shivering visibly. “ _ Nein _ .”

“Yes,” Fjord repeated, pressing closer, breathless with every word. Breathless and now grinning like a fool. Because it  _ was  _ real, and maybe he needed that to be acknowledged too. “Caleb,  _ yes,  _ you do.” Caleb shuddered, overwhelmed, tears forcing their way from the corners of his eyes, but he clung to Fjord, clung to him tight and didn’t let go. “But it’s okay,” Fjord reassured, his thumb swiping away the damp trail over Caleb’s cheek. “I’m still showing you…”

When Fjord leaned in the rest of the way to kiss him, it was hesitant. A far thing from graceful or perfect. Fjord himself was barely able to breathe and Caleb was drawing in desperate little bursts of air that he couldn’t seem to keep. Caleb shuddered against him, choking on air as his fingers dug into Fjord’s skin wherever he could reach him, hard enough to bruise. It was desperate and uncoordinated and surprisingly chaste. Little more than the press of his mouth to Caleb’s at first, the inability of either of them to properly hold air in their lungs and the unwillingness to pull away long enough or far enough to correct the awkward angle hampered anything more. But it was what he needed. It was breathing the same air, it was kissing the damp tear tracks from Caleb’s face, it was a muttered promise like a prayer that he meant it, of course he meant it,  _ gods did he mean it _ .  

And it was a mess. They were a mess. An embarrassing, endearing mess. Caleb, all but crawling into Fjord’s lap, still shaking like a leaf, pressing closer, closer, never close enough. And Fjord, unable to stop grinning, unable to help the honest to gods breathless  _ giggle  _ that forced its way from his chest at how surreal, how  _ good _ , how relieving, how much he  _ wanted it _ . 

“I care about you,” Fjord breathed between the biting kisses Caleb pressed to his mouth, his jaw, his throat, off-center and desperate and perfect. “I’m here because I care about you. I–”

“Shut up, Fjord,” Caleb gasped against his lips, silencing him with another kiss, perfect, beyond perfect. “Shut up,” he breathed, a needy whine in the back of his throat as Fjord laughed, slow to reciprocate, and gentle when he did, too gentle for Caleb’s liking, all haste and need and tangible reassurance. 

“I can’t. I won’t,” Fjord swore, his hands running up Caleb’s back, holding him flush against his chest, and Caleb was straddling his lap. “I want you. It’s selfish, it’s stupid, I want you. In any way – however you’ll have me–  _ mmf _ –”

Caleb cut him off with a bruising kiss, his brow furrowed in adorable consternation, eyes still closed tight. One hand gripped possessive at the base of Fjord’s skull. The other raked through his hair to grasp none-too-lightly at the back of his head, using it to leverage his head back and deepen the kiss rather successfully.

They parted eventually, panting softly, pressing chaste kisses to lip and cheek and jaw, to wherever Fjord could reach. Blissfully out of breath, head spinning, a lightness in his chest that just kept expanding. 

“Why,” Fjord panted, dragging his lips along the faint stubble along the bottom of Caleb’s jaw, “Why can’t you stand to hear me say it?” 

Caleb’s fingers tightened in Fjord’s hair, pulling a quiet groan from his chest, his eyes drifting closed as he mouthed at Caleb’s pulse. He couldn’t see Caleb’s face, didn’t need to, not to know the conflict playing across it. But Fjord’s touch was gentle, turned soothing, heat and desperation cooling, calming, and for perhaps the first time, he wasn’t afraid that Caleb would leave.

Caleb exhaled shakily, silent a long time, curling around Fjord further, his face hidden in the crook of his neck, arms around his shoulders. “ _ Kätzchen _ …” 

“I know,” Fjord murmured. Slowly, carefully, he leaned back, maneuvering them until Caleb was bundled close to Fjord’s chest, the two of them laying much the same way they began except with Fjord on his side, Caleb wedged comfortably between him and the back of the couch. Caleb’s face was hidden in his shoulder, breathing him in deeply, fingers curling into the warm, worn cotton of the front of Fjord’s shirt. “It’s okay,” he murmured, threading his fingers loose through Caleb’s hair. “I know.”

And that anxious, elated burst of energy, the haste, the  _ need _ , it gradually drained away. Biting,  desperate kisses turned slow, turned tender, appeasing the quiet ache nestled deep in Fjord’s chest. Each lazy drag of fingers and lips bloomed soft and golden over his skin, no longer marking their path with searing heat, but just as intoxicating. And all of it eased with hushed reassurances and inaudible endearments murmured low and soft against his skin. It was a melancholy sort of contentment, warm and exhausted and heavy with disbelief.

“Caleb?” Fjord asked, murmured low with the same shared breath as they parted, but didn’t go far. 

Caleb stirred slightly, humming quietly, his eyes hooded and dark, fingers dancing along Fjord’s jawline as he tilting his chin forward to press another chaste kiss against his lower lip. Another moment, kisses like gentle sips he would never get enough of, and Fjord parted with a quiet sigh. He was hesitant to disturb the newfound quiet, but he needed to. 

“Caleb, love,” he whispered, and Caleb shivered in response, burrowing closer. “I know you said I don’t have to, that you’re not asking me to. But I want– I want you to know.”

He felt Caleb still against him, breathing in deeply before pulling back and lifting his face far enough to meet Fjord’s gaze. He was quiet for a moment, a faint flush dusting his cheekbones, too much going on behind bright eyes for Fjord to properly track it. But he nodded a fraction, a low hum reverberating in his chest that Fjord felt more than heard. “Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You will, ah, you will tell me more about this, um…” He trailed off a moment, concern on his brow and a slight downward hitch to his mouth. “Eldritch nightmare, you called it?”

Fjord huffed a low note of agreement. “Sounds about right.”

Caleb’s fingers slid lightly over his ribs, curling more securely into the front of his shirt. “I am… a little worried about that one.”

He couldn’t disagree with that, not really. Fjord continued, explaining as best he knew how. The longer his voice filled the quiet, dark room – softer around the edges, gentler, not as foreign sounding as it was when he’d begun – the more naturally it came to him, evening out just as gradually as Caleb’s breath steadied.

Once the dreams had started up, Avantika was soon to follow. Avantika was  _ helpful _ . She had answers. But she was also distrusting, a touch too murderous, blatantly using him, and toward the end there, insane. Much of explaining Avantika was explaining Uk’atoa, what little lore around it that Fjord knew, and its efforts to free itself. To create a cult on the Material Plane to free it, first with Vandren, then with Avantika, and lastly with Fjord. And the whole while he navigated the mess that made for, he struggled to establish himself as her equal, thrust into leadership he’d never had before and that he’d certainly never wanted. 

He didn’t elaborate with too many details on the lengths he’d gone to in order to do so, to ingratiate himself into better position to gamble for his own life and the lives of his crew. Though he reckoned Caleb understood well enough. It was… he hadn’t known what it was. Hadn’t known it could be  _ so much _ better, not even a fraction of what he felt now, felt with–  

He stopped himself, cautious of pressing these new developments too far, too quickly, like one was cautious with a wound recently sealed. Still raw, a little strange, but it ached because it was healing, and it ached in the best way. But, if by the way Caleb’s arm slipped around his middle, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to his pulse, his jaw, the corner of his mouth meant anything, Fjord figured Caleb understood that well enough too.

And yet, Caleb was still twice as frightening and far more competent than Avantika ever dreamed she could be. But Fjord wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t imagine ever being afraid of him. And that made her seem… small. And very much in his past. 

He hadn’t expected the sort of relief that flooded his chest at that thought.

“This Uk’atoa creature doesn’t sound very pleasant,” Caleb mumbled against Fjord’s collar. 

“It’s not,” Fjord agreed.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully. “Yours does not sound like a relationship on equal terms. I am… very wary of that.”

“I know,” he said, but paused. “Which relationship you mean?”

Caleb exhaled in a huff. “The leviathan. But I don’t think I like this Avantika woman very much either,” he grumbled, mouthing what Fjord couldn’t help but consider  _ possessively  _ at the column of his throat, the scrape of teeth sending a spark of interest down his spine. 

“Makes five of us,” he breathed, winding his fingers through Caleb’s hair and tilting his own head back to give him better access.

Caleb hummed in agreement, muffled against Fjord’s throat where he busied himself. “Does she still breathe?” he asked, with what almost could have been characterized as innocent curiosity if not for the dark undertone to his voice that mirrored the tension in his shoulders and the way his hand settled firmly at Fjord’s hip.

Fjord huffed in amusement, the warm haze too pleasant for even this unpleasant bit of business to make him drop the small smirk tugging at his lips. “What an interesting way to assess if you need to have someone killed or not.”

Caleb stilled, pulling back after a moment from the heated trail he was making down Fjord’s neck. Fjord groaned quietly in protest, but when he forced his eyes back open, Caleb’s expression was… odd.

Fjord raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Some business of a certain nature I take care of myself, you know,” he said, strangely matter-of-fact. Caleb studied his reaction in a way that left Fjord wondering if it was the admission that Caleb would get his own hands dirty – and the insinuation that this would not be foreign to him – or the admission that he would do it  _ for Fjord _ that left him suddenly guarded.

Fjord rolled his eyes. “A touch dramatic, but I’m flattered, I guess,” he chuckled, surging forward suddenly and rolling, pulling Caleb under him and muffling his protest with a kiss – poorly executed and off-center, but it did the job. “Doesn’t matter though,” he sighed, lowering himself to steal another, a little more purposeful this time, a little less playful, and all the more rewarding as the revived tension bled from Caleb’s brow. “She’s dead. Plank King made a whole spectacle of it.”

Caleb huffed, adjusting his shoulders against the cushions at his back, disgruntled if only by how easily Fjord had maneuvered them. “I have never seen a political execution which was not spectacle,” he advised, his eyes drifting closed with a contented hum as they resettled more comfortably.

Fjord shifted back slightly, lowering himself where Caleb made space to accommodate him between his knees, his head pillowed on Caleb’s chest. Almost immediately, Caleb began combing his fingers through Fjord’s hair. Something he might have thought a mindless means of busying his hands if it weren’t just a little too repetitive, too intentional, a reassuring reminder that he was there and that he was listening.

So it was easier, easier by a long shot to pick his narrative back up where he’d left off. It wasn’t monumental, the change he felt. Like a shift in the breeze, or the warmth that crept in as the clouds passed, it took a moment of gradual realization to feel it and know what it was. After all, it wasn’t as if they’d never laid like this before.  _ This  _ was far more tame in comparison. But it was  _ easy.  _ That was the thing. It was  _ easy _ , and for the first time Fjord allowed it to be, because he’d been allowed to dare, to hope, to think it might last. 

Caleb was curious, cautious, terribly interested and probably the right amount of worried, trying his best not to interrupt with too many questions about the leviathan  – at least, that’s what he called it, Uk’atoa – that had sunk its teeth into Fjord and didn’t let go. Questions Fjord wasn’t always able to answer; about the old magic that sealed it away, the cloven crystals, and the ritual which was older still that had weakened the binds which suspended Uk’atoa between the planes just far enough, and just at the right time, to allow it to slip free into the elemental plane of water. 

A clever solution, Caleb decided. “Do not get me wrong,” he said, after a few moments having lapsed into silence, deep inside his own head, “a truly terrifying solution if I have ever heard one. The planes mesh and overlap at unpredictable intervals, in unstable manners. The odds of failure, of putting it on the wrong plane, on the  _ material plane  _ –” 

Fjord huffed, more fond than annoyed. “Don’t need a lecture here, Cay.”

Caleb sighed, eyes closed tight, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am not trying to criticize. If it were not clear already, I am quite pleased you are still alive, and at least mostly in the creature’s good graces. However that had to be achieved is forgivable. I just…” 

“Yeah,” Fjord agreed, finding one of Caleb’s wrists and tugging his hand down to where he could see it, interlacing his fingers with Calebs, just because he could. Because he couldn’t get enough. Because heavy topic be damned, there was still part of him, the majority of him, that was drunk with it. “I get it. It was a risk.”

“A calculated risk,  _ ja _ ,” Caleb amended. “I am familiar with those.”

He had more questions still, questions Fjord had never thought to ask; about the nature of the cult Vandren and mostly Avantika had started, how they communicated with the creature,  _ if  _ they communicated with it, if they were even capable, how  _ it  _ communicated with them. Caleb seemed particularly interested in the dreams, the common themes and symbolism between them, and the few words of Common that Uk’atoa had ever spoken to him, all hunger and wanting and watching and promising.

“And the creature… it still communicates with you, with these dreams? Recently?” Caleb asked, his gaze a hundred leagues away. Something else flickered there, a question yet to be asked, something like concern darkening his brow.

“Hm.” Fjord shrugged a shoulder, noncommittal. He didn’t protest when Caleb gently pulled his hand from Fjord’s grasp, not when it resettled at the back of his neck. “Fairly recently I guess, considering it’s usually, thankfully, far and few between, and only when it wants something.”

“It still wants something?” The way Caleb’s tone was oddly flat though, and the way he fidgeted, his fingers splaying through Fjord’s hair like how he tended to bury them in Frumpkin’s fur, it gave Fjord pause.

He considered it. “Something, yes,” he said. “Though beyond some vague images of a storm and Darktow on fire, I couldn’t begin to tell you what.”

Caleb was quiet a moment longer, still staring up at the ceiling. “Has anyone else had these, ah, dreams?”

Fjord frowned, sparing a glance up at Caleb’s face, but he couldn’t read much there. “Recently?”

“Ever.”

Still impassive. “I don’t think so. Not other than Avantika, and maybe Vandren I guess.” Then, his turn to ask a question, creeping at the back of his mind for the last few of Caleb’s. “Why?”

Caleb’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, the crease between his brows reforming. Thinking then, and not liking very much what he was thinking about. “I, ah–” he stopped, with a shallow exhale and that stern set of his mouth that returned when he was frustrated with himself. “I–”

The gentle knock at the door had them both jolting as if they’d been struck, adrenaline and heart rates spiking for no good reason, the anxiety of the last 24 hours leaving its mark. Caleb’s expression blanched at the sound, whatever words he’d been forming dying as he jerked upright automatically, or tried to, making Fjord scramble off the couch to his feet. He was almost able to feel the pommel of the falchion in the energy thrumming through his palm. 

Fjord looked at the door, inconspicuous dark oak all the way across the study that didn’t deserve the threats and dangers his imagination offered that might be lurking behind it. He looked to Caleb, sitting ramrod straight, his expression blank for a second too long for it to sit right with him.

“Caleb?” There was a muffled voice behind the door. Gentle and low, but easily recognizable as Nott’s. Strange. He didn’t know where she had disappeared to these last few days, but it was no hard task to guess why she’d make an appearance now. 

That at least eased the spike of anxiety in Fjord’s chest, but did nothing to loosen the tension between Caleb’s shoulders. He didn’t react at all, which was worse. Fjord slowly lowered himself to the cushion beside him, projecting his movements as put a hand on Caleb’s forearm, squeezing once. “Hey,” he whispered, brushing the loose hair from Caleb’s face, brushing gently down his cheek and nudging his jaw to turn and look at him. “It’s okay,” he reassured, and he meant it. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

Caleb inhaled sharply, the slightly stricken façade cracking as he met Fjord’s eyes, momentary panic and deep, wordless remorse etched deep across his face. “I– I am sorry,” he breathed. Then, small and heart wrenching, “I don’t– I don’t know  _ how _ .”

“Caleb, are you in there?” Nott’s voice, accompanied by another soft rap.

Fjord wouldn’t deny the soft ache in his chest, not if Caleb asked. But Caleb already knew. That it caused him such remorse hurt Fjord just as badly, perhaps worse, but he couldn’t conceal that the secrecy was never what he wanted, and not easy to keep up.

He offered Caleb a small smile, dropping his hands to take both of Caleb’s for just a second with a reassuring squeeze. “I figure. But it’s okay. There’s been… a lot, lately. A lot going on.”

Caleb scoffed, his grip tightening a fraction. “You could say that,” he mumbled, eyes drifting back to the door.

The door handle turned a fraction before catching on the lock. “Why’s the door locked?” Nott called from behind it. “Can I come in? Are you okay?”

“Hey,” Fjord gentled again, calling Caleb back. “We’ll make it work. Yeah?”

Caleb’s eyes softened, darting down to the carpet for a breath before lifting again to meet Fjord’s gaze. But he did meet it, with certainty like steel that Fjord had come to learn was as good as a promise. 

Caleb nodded. Slow. Trusting. Without a word he ducked in to press one last fleeting kiss to Fjord’s lips, without enough warning and over too soon to savor it properly. Then he was rising to his feet, “A moment Nott, I am coming.” In a moment’s transition, he bore every ounce of confidence, of self-assuredness in each step and gesture that, finally, Fjord felt buoy his own heart up from the hell it had sunk into.

He loved this man. Every damned god above and below help him, he did.

And for the first time, that wasn’t the loneliest feeling in the world.


	19. take the heart (you thought you had) part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nott returns from Rexxentrum. Caleb and Fjord try to finish a much need conversation in light of new information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a brief moment of what can definitely be classified as self-harm, and a mental health spiral. Read with care.
> 
> S/O to @caltracat on Twitter for the fan art of Archmage Widogast, embedded below. They've got some other cool art so go check them out! I'm also linking rainbar's spotify playlist for this fic again because it's updated and I fucking love it: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5vZYK5YAJd4HhXT4WI3Bh9
> 
> As always, you can catch me on Twitter @wytchlyghts

Nott was scrambling to shove her lockpicks back into one of the many pockets concealed by her riding cloak – mottled grey and still damp from the rain and mud splatter – as she heard soft footsteps and felt the floorboards creak and shift with the weight of someone approaching the door. She leapt back as the lock clicked and handle turned, instinct or else just muscle memory urging her to run for a dark corner, but then the door was opening and – 

“ _Calebwhatthefuck_ –” the anxiety coiled tightly in her chest burst forth in a shout, her heart beating faster than she’d thought it had been. Shoving through the door, she barrelled inside, nearly taking out Caleb’s knees as she latched onto his legs. “I thought you were dead!” 

He stumbled, reaching out for the back of a chair and catching himself. “Nott, easy _Schatz_ ,” Caleb had the _audacity_ to chuckle as he lowered himself to a knee to be at her eye level. He… looked okay. Alive, which was more than she had known when leaving Rexxentrum, but mostly okay also, if too pale and uncharacteristically disheveled. “It is good to see you,” he said, a faint smile touching his eyes.

She wasn’t upset, not really. Not enough _not_ to throw her arms around Caleb’s shoulders and pull him into as crushing an embrace as she could manage. That’s what she’d decided after Beau had told her that he was alive and mostly okay – though she had needed to see for herself – and offered a brief explanation of everything else that had happened after only a little crossbow waving. But now, she couldn’t help the frustration and fear that resurged in hot coals of anger in her chest, her eyes too warm and breath too shaky. 

“Don’t you ‘ _schatz’_ me,” she rebuked, scowling fiercely and pulling back far enough to prod him threateningly in the chest with a condemning finger. “You couldn’t even send a message? Rumors get all the way to _Rexxentrum_ , I rush back here, and I have to hear it _from Beauregard_ that you’re not dead?” she scolded, tone turned caustic with outrage.

Caleb fumbled for words, a quick, confused series of thoughts playing over his expression as he struggled to keep up. “I – I’m sorry, I – how did you make it back so quickly? A– are you alright? Did you run into any trouble?”

“ _I’m_ fine,” she nearly snapped, shutting down his concern with a stern look, hands on her hips. “I’m not the one who was _almost killed_.”

Caleb sighed, sitting back on his heels. “I was not almost k–”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she threatened. “Don’t even try. I made Beau tell me everything. _Everything._ ”

Caleb was quiet a moment, his shoulders falling a fraction with a deep exhale and something akin to guilt darkening his brow. “I will not say everything is– is perfectly fine. Clearly there is much to discuss. The study, everything in it, everything we’ve been working on…” He trailed off, gaze going a distant for a second before he recollected himself. “But at least none of it is in the wrong hands, that I know. And a prisoner,” he added, tone lilting upward as if that made it better somehow. As if Nott gave two coppers about all that. “To prevent a repeat of the professor’s unfortunate end I asked Beau to see to securing –”

Eyes narrowed, Nott stuck her face forward nearly up against his, making Caleb reel back slightly in surprise as she looked him in the eyes closely and put the back of her hand to his forehead in a show of gauging his temperature. “Did you hit your head? Are you feverish?” she asked, bitterly sarcastic. “You think I give a fuck about that? _You could’ve been killed you idiot_ ,” she grit out, nearly shaking. She could’ve screamed it at him, could’ve smacked him, and she would’ve too, if she thought it would do anything to replace the sense of self-preservation he was apparently born without. 

Caleb’s mouth twisted unpleasantly, biting at his lip as he carefully weighed his next words for a long, tense moment. “Can you…” he began quietly, wincing apologetically, “Nott, can you at least tell me if you were able to deliver it without issue?”

“Yes yes,” she sighed, rolling her eyes hard. “I delivered it this morning, no problems, no one but Da’leth knew I was there,” she rattled off. He wouldn’t let it go until she did, she knew that. “Until I went straight to the Archive in Rexxentrum and made them –”

“You went to the Archive?” Caleb blurted out, surprise and concern coloring his tone. “Nott, you were –”

“I know,” she snapped, “quiet, covert, nobody supposed to know I was there. Well, Da’leth took one look at what you wrote and the incident reports you marked and said he was surprised for _two reasons,_ _Caleb_ ,” she said, grinding her teeth painfully. “The first because you know he doesn’t involve himself with the Scourgers, and second _because it seemed like you had more immediate problems_ ,” she shouted, grabbing his collar firmly as if she might shake him. She wouldn’t, but it felt good seeing him cowed just a little. “He told me about the attack, I went to the Archive, and you bet your scrawny ass I made a scene until Archivist Kathedoc had someone teleport me back to Zadash. Now shut up and let me see this.”

The few days worth of stubble darkening Caleb’s jaw was rough against her hands as she grabbed either side of his face, examining him closely. Caleb choked on a protest, wobbling slightly as he tried to keep his balance, but he bit his tongue and tolerated it as Nott turned his head to get a better look at the discoloration of the nearly healed burns along his collar and neck, making a mental note to thank Jester and nab something shiny for her, maybe something to add to her horn decorations. 

There were tired dark circles under his eyes, maybe not as dark as usual though. But he looked terribly pale and probably too gaunt, even though she always thought that, and his hair was loose and clothes disheveled like he’d slept in them– rumpled and untucked, halfway unbuttoned, and his sleeves scrunched up messily at his elbows. A rough state, but mostly okay she kept telling herself. Certainly not on death’s door like she’d imagined when Beau told her about his nearly collapsing in the jail, and before that, what Beau had described as fully unresponsive and bleeding half to death, mumbling in Zemnian so Astrid’s name the only part she understood.

So this at least was a weight off her shoulders. She finally took a breath, what seemed like the first all day, and patted Caleb’s cheek lightly, satisfied. 

“Nott, please,” Caleb implored quietly, soft smile replaced by something more somber. He gently covered her hands with his and pulled them away. “I am sorry,” he apologized, low and hushed in the space between them. “I am sorry, _schatz_. So much happened very quickly and I admit, I did not want to worry you or call you back here only to put you in the middle of it. I did not think that rumors would reach you. Forgive me.”

Nott sighed, her shoulders falling, feeling very much deflated. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” she grumbled, allowing Caleb to draw her into a hug where he still knelt, and wrapping her arms around him again. “This conversation isn’t over, not by a long shot,” she cautioned, giving him a reproachful look, but easing it quickly. “But I forgive you and I’m glad you’re not dead,” she said, knocking her forehead against his gently. 

He chuckled at that, but at least put in the effort to hold back a grin. His hand settled on the back of her head, ruffling her hair fondly, but as Nott’s arms slipped lower around his ribs, her embrace just as tight, Caleb’s sudden, poorly concealed flinch and stuttering exhale made her hesitate. 

She froze, about to pull away with a question when, “Careful, that’ll still be a bit tender,” an unfamiliar voice from deeper within the study warned. 

Nott yelped in surprise. She leapt back like a snapping spring, throwing her cloak out of the way and lifting her crossbow. Narrowed yellow eyes searched the interior of the mansion’s study for the first time since entering, never suspecting a need to, and landed immediately on Fjord.

Caleb lost his balance, catching it with a hand on the ground to steady himself, but when he looked up, Nott already had a bolt leveled at the center of Fjord’s chest. “Nott!” Caleb raised his voice, wincing and trying to breathe in shorter, shallower increments, one arm held close to his side. “Please, that is unnecessary,” he urged, swearing quietly under his breath as he righted himself.

Nott gaped at Fjord, sitting there on Caleb’s couch, in Caleb’s study, his hair all messy and dressed down to an undershirt made of flowy material, with a plunging neckline with loose ties that she didn’t have to imagine to be _just_ what a pirate _would_ wear on the front cover of one of the dirty novels she’d peeked at in Jester’s bag when she’d gone snooping. And Fjord, leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, smiling politely at Nott with a little wave before glancing back to track Caleb as he got to his feet, was apparently unconcerned with the weapon being aimed at him. 

“Instead of messaging me that you were _alive_ ,” Nott growled, properly angry now as she whirled on Caleb, though the bolt aimed at Fjord didn’t budge an inch. “You were holed up wi– _with Captain Hot Pants?!_ ” she shrieked in indignation. She trusted Caleb. She knew he was smarter than herself, smarter than just about everyone, but whatever this was, it was so incredibly stupid. And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. 

“Nott,” Caleb sighed, his tone decidedly disappointed. He moved slowly toward her, hand extended to gently push the aim of her crossbow bolt toward the floor, but she backed away, glaring at Fjord still, who at least by this point had the decency to drop the debonair attitude and look concerned. “Nott, please,” Caleb continued, a strained quality to his voice, “lower that before –”

“Why is he talking different?” she demanded to know as the realization struck her. She looked from Fjord to Caleb and back again. “Why are you talking different?” Something passed over both Fjord and Caleb’s faces, right before they made fleeting eye contact. She didn’t like that either.

“I’m sorry to have deceived you before,” Fjord said softly, apologetic enough to give Nott pause. He lifted his eyes up from the carpet between his unlaced boots. “I’m not originally from the Menagerie Coast, though I am fairly practiced at sounding like it. For a while it… seemed appropriate.”

It sounded like too simple an explanation, mocking an accent presumably to go along with the cover Caleb and Beau had created for them in Zadash, as emissaries from the Coast. Nott scowled her most intimidating scowl, scraggle-toothed and hissing just a little as she shifted to put herself between the pirate and Caleb. Fjord just shifted uncomfortably, not giving her anything else to work with except for how he looked to Caleb for help, and Caleb, the idiot, just moved around her to put himself in the path of Nott’s crossbow. Fjord was too adept a liar, she was sure, to trust it. But even though it was suspicious, how Fjord spoke wasn’t why she’d gone looking for Caleb and it wasn’t one of the more pressing matters they needed to discuss.

She lowered her crossbow, if only because Caleb was determined to put himself in front of it and she wasn’t going to point it at _him_. “I need to talk to Caleb,” she directed at Fjord. “Alone. Door’s over there,” she indicated with her crossbow.

Sighing, but without a word, just another shrouded glance at Caleb – and she didn’t like this, that they’d developed a language in looks in the time she’d not been around to supervise – Fjord began to push himself up to his feet in compliance.

But Caleb held out a hand as if to stop him, and he hesitated. “Nott, please, we were – we were discussing something important. If you…” He trailed off at the look on her face, guilt and an almost tangible spike of anxiety playing over his own.

She stared at him blankly for a few seconds, the pit in her stomach growing deeper as she felt it drop. “You want… I just got here,” she stated, monotone. “I just got here and _someone_ tried to have you killed because of this stupid Bladegarden Project and, and there’s _something else_ that’s more important right now?” she asked, genuinely perplexed, though that didn’t do anything to conceal the doubt and hurt in her voice.

Caleb was silent, didn’t even try to formulate a response, the guilt palpable. It was Fjord who tried to assuage her, slowly walking closer. “I think, if I may,” he started quietly, diplomatically, pausing when Nott’s eyes snapped to him as he approached in his ridiculous pirate shirt and rumpled hair and unlaced boots as if he’d just put them on, with his hands up slightly as if she still might raise that crossbow. His first smart decision. “Part of the issue is, everything Caleb would like to discuss with you, it would probably be best if the others were present for it also. No use explaining everything twice, right?” he tried. “It – I don’t know how much detail Beau gave you, or what you’re caught up on exactly, but it, well it involves most of us, so...”

Caleb nodded mutely as Fjord glanced to him for confirmation, latching onto it like a lifeline. He took a breath, recollecting himself. Nott watched him closely, something very strange and conspiratorial about this, between the two of them, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. 

“That– that’s true, yes,” Caleb said, nearly stammered. “I owe everyone an explanation, I think.”

Nott’s eyebrows shot up, her crossbow forgotten at her side. “Everyone? How much of an explanation?” she asked, wondering again, less sarcastically this time, if he had hit his head, as this was not the same Caleb who hoarded information like a dragon hoards gold and who shared it about just as readily. Which was to say, never. 

He took a shuddering breath, eyes darting to Fjord and back. “I am not certain, to be honest. But I think… most of it, would be appropriate. From the beginning, now it’s coming to a head,” he admitted quietly, looking to Nott like he needed her to understand, to go with him on this. Though, what she was meant to understand, she got the sense was how very little confidence Caleb had in this course of action, and how rattled he was, under everything.

Nott sighed, already regretting her decision. As her shoulders fell, her will to fight draining away, she shot a glare at Fjord once more before turning back to Caleb with a softer gaze. “Fine. I’ll round everyone up. But, Caleb, before I do, before you finish –” she waved a dismissive hand in Fjord’s general direction – “whatever, I –” She wrung her hands, shifting uncomfortably. She hated this. Hated it. Shouldn’t even have gone to the Archive and didn’t even know if it was relevant, and she knew Caleb didn’t _want_ to hear it, but she couldn’t just not share it.

Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly, confused. “What is it, _Schatz_?” Slowly, he dropped down to a knee again, gently brushing a dark lock of hair out of her face. Then, for a moment, there was concern. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing _happened_ ,” Nott clarified, feeling the difference was important. “I just heard something you might want to know, in the Archive. In Rexxentrum, earlier today.” That caught Caleb’s ear and his curiosity; he waited patiently, nodding for her to go on, while Fjord – no, fuck him actually, she couldn’t read him at all. Caleb nodded for her to go on, though he looked increasingly concerned and displeased as she did, his brow furrowed and mouth a hard line.

“You know I don’t _try_ to overhear things, not usually,” she started, a flagrant lie but they both knew that, “but I was waiting for Kathedoc to find someone who could use the circle to take me to Zadash, and these two monks were talking pretty loudly– well, not loudly enough to hear but loudly enough to hear them whispering and it was easy enough to just –”

“Nott,” Caleb interrupted, urging her along to the point with a look. 

“They were talking about someone else, the last person who used the circle to Zadash, just the night before, the night those assassins–”

“We don’t know they were assassins,” Caleb gently corrected.

“The night of the fire, then,” she amended, exasperated. “Someone else, a man who didn’t have to show a writ from the Assembly to use the circles but just looked at Kathedoc and got waved through. With short dark hair and a Zemnian accent and strange tattoos on his forearms and – and –” 

There was nothing more to say, not judging by how Caleb’s face fell halfway into her description before he steeled himself, expression going blank. It made her nervous, after what had just happened and what state he was in, and she reached out to put a hand on his arm. Caleb didn’t even give an indication that he felt it or noticed, not until, almost mechanically like he was just going through the motions for her sake, he placed his hand over hers. Squeezing lightly just once, he offered her a weak smile that dropped away quickly.

Caleb got to his feet after that. Not shakily or like he might be about to flee the room, Nott observed. He just turned and began walking toward the writing desk tucked away in the corner of the study. She couldn’t see his expression, but the more normal he seemed about it, the worse her creeping feeling of dread became. Nothing more to say, but she tried anyway. 

“Do you, do you still want me to get the others?” she asked, hesitant. She tracked Fjord from the corner of her eye, still suspicious, but he just watched Caleb, slightly confused and something else she couldn’t place, something attentive, which didn’t quite ease her suspicion but wasn’t _bad_ per se. “Or I can stay, for a minute, if you want to talk about…” She glances at Fjord and back to Caleb, not sure how much he knew about the situation. “You know.” 

That didn’t get a reaction from Caleb, not immediately, his knuckles bearing his weight as he leaned forward over the surface of the desk, head bowed like he was reading something laid out on the glossy rosewood. Except the fact that it was devoid of any paperwork or open books suggested he wasn’t so much looking at anything more than he was avoiding looking at either of them. 

After a moment of what might have generously been called pensive silence, Caleb just shook his head, his words clear enough though he didn’t lift his head to look at her. “Go, ah– please go find the others. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Okay,” Nott agreed after an uneasy moment, eyes darting between Fjord and Caleb. Still she hesitated in front of the door, fingers tapping nervously at the handle. 

Caleb was watching her when she glanced back to him, or at least, he was looking in her direction, his eyes distant and cool expression difficult to parse. “Nott?” His eyes dropped back to the desk, his hair beginning to fall over his face in a curtain, making him all the more difficult to read.

“Yes?”

He was slow to find the words he wanted. It was like gravity weighed heavier on him, like the shadows fell darker over his face whenever that name came up of late, so much so that Nott loathed to address it. Caleb had only ever provided her with hints as to why.

“When you find Beauregard,” he finally asked, “would you tell her… tell her to be careful, and tell her to assume that Eodwulf is in Zadash.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

For a lingering moment, it was quiet again. An isolated quiet, inside this mirror version of his study. The sort in which Caleb could lose track of the ever-passing seconds and convince himself that he had more time than he actually possessed. That the rest of Exandria would simply wait until he exited these walls again. Despite the time limit on the mansion spell, the illusion remained. It was so very easy to slip into it, and Caleb couldn’t quite muster the effort to break free. 

He needed to think. To move. Space. He needed something. But he didn’t have time for _something,_ not when he didn’t even know what it was. Distantly, he was aware of Fjord’s back to him. Fjord, at the other end of the study, standing in the doorway and watching Nott’s retreat. 

There was still a pain in his side. Dull, and far too deep. The resonant pangs of discomfort reminded him of where a blade had been not too long ago. He needed it to stop.

That morning it had already been… No, not morning. Evening. Everything was out of order, and Caleb was having a hard time keeping track. That _evening_ it had been a discomfort when he awoke, tucked into Fjord’s side. But all the while it ached fiercely as he lay there, silent, feigning sleep to buy himself time as he debated his escape, as one minute became the next, and his silently leaving became less and less likely while his excuse to stay remained. He didn’t _want_ to leave, and realizing that was a separate matter all of its own. So he let the ache ground him in the present. In something he knew was real. 

Maybe the resonant ache _stopping_ wasn’t what he needed then.

And then… and then everything. _Fjord_ . Though he’d told him that he didn’t need to tell him anything, much less everything. He didn’t need to, but he did anyway, and so Caleb hoped he’d done it for himself. Done it because he wanted to. And then _Nott_ , though it wasn’t her fault, shattering the illusion that Caleb could possibly afford himself the time or privacy to work through _that_ guilt. _Nott_ , with meaning to making both his worlds – the one waiting outside and the one right there with Fjord – collide cruelly. 

He needed clarity. 

His head was spinning, though he knew he wasn’t moving. Just standing, staring down at an empty desk with all the same wood grain and pock marks as the real version sitting in a now empty study in Rexxentrum.

Clarity. He moved slowly, cautiously at first, pressing his palm firmly to his bruised ribs. His lungs caught on the fresh pain that lanced through his chest, his breath caught halfway in his throat hissing through his teeth.

Clarity. He needed it almost as badly as he needed _time_ . But things just kept _happening_ – the attack, the arrests, _Fjord_ , now _this,_ though he supposed he knew it was overdue _–_ and he was afforded neither, nor was he able to carve them out for himself. 

Grinding the heel of his palm against the memory of the wound, that painful, too-warm ache in his ribs crowded out the vivid details swimming before his eyes, a constant stream of information and perfect recall that his own mind kept supplying him with, discordant and fractured and all out of order:

_How the light reflected strangely — beautifully but strangely — off the silver and pooling crimson in his hand when he first looked down in shock, clutching at the blade slotted so neatly into his chest;_

_The cold night air against his skin, almost feverish;_

_The face of the man who had wielded it, pockmarks and scars and sweat-damp strands of dark hair swept above his brow;_

_The distinct color of his leathers, faded a dusty grey-black, and the patterned texture of his hood;_

_The faint engraving in the hilt of his blade, the five-sickled star of the Myriad etched in silver;_

_Grey eyes, angry and focused and_ afraid _._

 _Clarity for gods’ sakes,_ Caleb cursed to himself silently, not caring if he needed to dig his knuckles into his own side, still healing and protesting loudly, louder still as he pushed hard enough to see flashes of white behind his eyelids, closed tightly. It was too warm, he was too warm, and breathing too quickly, his lungs trying and failing to keep pace with his climbing heart rate.

Useless detail. Random recall. Though he couldn’t turn it off. Frozen, they stood in clear contrast to the rest, the moments between filled with too much movement and filtered by panic – though Caleb was loathe to call it panic – that returned to him muffled and diluted as if from underwater.

The pain cut through the panic, cut through the images returning unbidden to his mind. Or he tried to – it _used to_ , once. Not so much anymore. _You’re slipping,_ Astrid whispered in his ear. She hadn’t yet left, not since the fire, the burning mansion nothing like a small farmhouse but it burned just the same. _Losing the basics, every useful thing he taught us._

He couldn’t help the note of disgust catching at the back of his throat.

“Caleb?” Fjord’s voice, his _concern_ , was quiet, distant, underwater.

He shuddered, reaching blindly for the side of the desk for support, his other arm braced against his ribs; no longer pressing, but the healing wound didn’t forgive him so quickly. 

Maybe so. Maybe he was. Slipping. It certainly felt like drowning, or at least, what he imagined it to feel like. And pain never really did do anything to save anyone from drowning. 

“ _Caleb._ ” 

Caleb’s eyes flew open as the cool hand closed around his wrist, pulling his own hand away from his side, the other arm around his shoulders equal parts pushing and guiding him down into the chair behind him. He was breathing hard, harder than he had a right to be, his vision spotty at best, but he still saw Fjord, crouched in front of his chair and looking at him like that – with deep worry and a tinge of his own wide-eyed panic and what Caleb was only now coming to terms with being a version of compassion and concern that he could stomach.

Fjord didn’t say a word though, his grip on Caleb’s wrist not lessening in the least; but Fjord had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t working, not like it used to. 

Still, Fjord hovered close. But he hesitated to come any closer, to touch Caleb any more than he was already, looking up at him through the curtain of copper hair beginning to fall across his eyes as if he was waiting for him to explain himself. Instead, Caleb stared uselessly down at his hands, drawing air into his lungs one breath after another until gradually it slowed. Gradually, matching Fjord’s.

“What are you doing?” Fjord asked, a breathless whisper, a sorrowful disbelief hanging from each word. 

He didn’t have an answer for that, not one Fjord would like or understand. But Caleb was half certain Fjord didn’t expect one, that the question may very well have been merely to stave off the silence. He hoped that was the case. Closing his eyes, Caleb shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. He couldn’t. 

At Caleb’s mute response, he heard Fjord sigh, heard the wood creak as it sounded like he rose to his feet. Numbed by the bitter backwash of dread in the wake of Nott’s parting revelation, his head swimming sluggishly, for an instant he was certain enough that Fjord was leaving – without a word – that he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes or lift his head to watch him go. To confirm it. 

So he startled visibly when he felt Fjord’s hand, blessedly cool, settle gently at the back of his neck. A sharp inhale hissing through his teeth, Caleb opened his eyes to see Fjord had simply shifted to take a knee beside his chair, fingers threading through Caleb’s hair to brush it back from his face.

“Easy,” Fjord hushed, his voice soft. Still, his brow was furrowed, his expression one of deep concern. “Are you trying to scare me right now?” he asked, gently lifting the hem of Caleb’s shirt to check on the mostly healed, thanks to Jester, but still tender wounds beneath. And Fjord’s hand was cool against his feverish skin, his touch gentle as his fingers splayed over Caleb’s ribs, no purpose other than to sooth.

Caleb shook his head, his fists clenching, inhaling deeply although he could barely manage to hold it. He bit his lip, but stopped short of nearly drawing blood. It hardly helped, afterall. A moment more though, and he did manage to rein himself in enough that the quaking of his shoulders turned a visible shudder that tore through him, but that left him in control once again.

Fjord frowned still, taking a deep breath, the pad of his thumb massaging a light circle at the nape of Caleb’s neck. “Do you need a minute?”

Caleb drew in a shaky breath. “To do what?” he whispered, his words returning in a low, dry rasp. He shook his head, swallowing around the tightness in his throat and looking away. “I’ll not wait another moment to see what else can go awry.” He sounded cold, hollow, a liar even in his own ears. “ _Nein_ , I am fine.”

Fjord sighed at that. This time the wordless breath had a decidedly more disappointed note to it. “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.” Slowly, his hands fell away and Fjord rose to his feet, leaning back against the edge of the desk in front of Caleb, though he didn’t go any further.

Caleb said nothing, the cold seeping into his bones. He failed to suppress the next shudder that ran the length of his spine.

“You know, with the deeply troubled and deadly thing, I’ve never seen anyone master brooding quite like you have,” Fjord stated, blunt, and with a dismissive shrug as Caleb blinked back to himself, confused enough to lift his eyes. “But this isn’t brooding. I don’t know what this is. You’re not this helpless, not _alone_ , and you know it.”

Fjord’s words and tone weren’t antagonizing, not like they could be. Still, that hardly stopped confusion from giving way to a flare of the irrational anger simmering low in Caleb’s chest. For the briefest moment, that anger reached his brow. Slowly, he turned his glare up to Fjord, now looking down at him expectantly over crossed arms. 

“Would you truly call me wrong,” Caleb asked, a low warning, “to say everything I have been working toward – that _we all_ have been working toward this last month at least – has begun to swiftly unravel?”

Fjord scoffed at that, nodding like it was amusing, his tongue prodding at his tusks while he considered it patiently. “You want to know what I’d say?”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed, his jaw going tight. “I really do.”

He didn’t hesitate to answer, tone as apathetic as if merely discussing the weather. “I’d say I didn’t think you were one to give up so quickly over a bit of drama.”

The angry heat burning through him sent Caleb to his feet, without even stepping forward already finding himself mere inches away from Fjord’s face. Caleb’s glare met with a frustratingly cooler gaze, though Fjord’s was no less unyielding. “How,” he demanded, fists clenched tight enough that his nails bit into his palms, “in the name of the gods, do you construe recent events as _drama_.”

“The way I see it,” Fjord began slowly, reasonably – all the more infuriatingly. “Some people tried to either kill you, or steal from you. We don’t know which, or who they were, or why, but I’d bet my last copper you have some good ideas. And one survived, no? And either way, _they failed_ , Caleb,” Fjord said, grabbing Caleb by the shoulders like he could shake him, but the sheer relief that crept into his voice at those last words was impossible to miss or mistake. 

A breath, and Fjord’s eyes and tone softened. “I’m not saying you should be perfectly fine. I’m not gonna pretend to know why it’s got you shaken so badly, though I wish I did if only so I could _help_ somehow. But if we’re strictly talking about your plan to – this Bladegarden Project – I don’t see how this cha–”

“You are hardly seeing the full picture,” Caleb rasped, without knowing where to begin, or how to explain how _wrong_ Fjord was. But he couldn’t stop himself. “You are forgetting last night’s attacks did not center on myself. All of the other targets were killed, and the only connection I can see between them is that I had a file open on each that burned last night. I’m glad for that, rather than fall into the wrong hands, but we don’t– I do not _know_ anything, cannot _assume_ anything except how likely it is that I, _we,_ are being watched. And now Nott tells me –“ Cursing darkly in Zemnian, Caleb shook his head, unable to continue or even look at Fjord.

“Caleb, if I’m not seeing the full picture –” there was a gravity to his tone that was missing before, more desperation than frustration, Fjord’s voice low as his grip tightened on Caleb’s shoulders, making him look him in the eye “– _it’s because you haven’t shared it with me_.”

So quickly, more quickly than he would’ve thought possible, the anger, the irrational frustration that gripped Caleb tight and kept him upright, all of it faded. Somehow the numb absence that replaced it was always worse.

“What do you want from me, Fjord?” Caleb pleaded, searching desperately for the answer in Fjord’s eyes but not seeing it. Still, he felt like he knew the answer already. And he wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him everything, and _badly_ ; his own hypocrisy after everything Fjord had shared with him not thirty minutes ago was certainly not lost on him. Neither was the guilt for his failure to even meet him halfway. He just didn’t know where to begin.

“Would it be too much to ask that you tell me what’s got you like this?” Fjord asked, quiet and miserably hopeful. It hurt as much as any blade between his ribs to wat g, after a moment of shocked silence, as Fjord’s shoulders fell, his hands dropping back to his sides, all his doubt and misgivings playing out across his face. “Beau and Nott don’t trust me – hell, Beau keeps it professional enough, but you were here for that. Nott already wants to fucking kill me and she doesn’t even know the half of it, which given how weirdly fucking protective she is I’m guessing she won’t take kindly,” Fjord sighed, resigned to that fate. “So if anyone’s going to tell me what’s going on…” 

His words trailed off with a shrug that perhaps betrayed more than Fjord had meant, but their meaning settled heavily on Caleb’s shoulders. 

He understood. Of course he understood. 

The silence of the study was deafening. He felt… drained, and blisteringly raw standing awkwardly in front of Fjord, in front of his– his– of this man whom he so cared for in spite of himself, and for it he felt all the more alone. An isolation of his own making, his own keeping, and it was that last thought that soured the most quickly.

Slowly, trying not to show how badly his hands were shaking, Caleb reached out, taking Fjord’s hands in his own. “Beauregard likes you, and yours, more than you know. And Nott, though well meaning, does not make decisions for me,” he stated firmly, in no uncertain terms. “I am _sorry_ , Fjord,” he forced himself to continue past the wavering of his voice, past the constricting heat in his chest and throat and the damp threatening to well up in his eyes. “More sorry than I think I have words for, that I cannot _do this_ in the way I should like. But I am trying, Fjord, to– to figure this out. And I want to– I _want_ –” 

Caleb nearly choked on a strangled sob, as desperate to find the right words and force them out as he was frustrated with himself for failing to do so. And with it, and the wounded sound it pulled from Fjord’s chest, the strange tension in the few inches of space between them snapped. He wasn’t even sure which man moved first, whether he had reached out or Fjord had stepped forward, but it was so much easier to hide the stinging tears in his eyes in Fjord’s shoulder and welcome the embrace that pulled him closer than to question it. 

“Oh _fuck_ , darling,” Fjord breathed, low and muffled against Caleb’s hair as he pressed a kiss to his temple, arms widing tighter around him. “I didn’t mean that. I know you are. I can’t imagine the position you’re in, I know you’re trying to keep everyone safe. I just– fucking hell, I didn’t mean that.”

He took a moment to breathe, forcing himself to inhale deeply and release it slowly, clinging to Fjord the whole while, until he was confident he could speak without his voice trembling. “Not an excuse,” he promised, clearing his throat. “I know what you meant. I– There’s so much I want t– I need to tell you,” he said, his voice shaking, the breath falling out from under his words until all he could form was a rough whisper.

“At your own time,” Fjord murmured, his own voice cracking, fingers carding gently through his hair.

“I think I lost that privilege,” Caleb laughed, too damp and without any humor. “So much is happening that I have so very little control over right now, and I– I don’t– I _just_ –” 

Fjord tried to hush him with a gentle sound, but Caleb shook his head, _needing_ Fjord to understand. 

“I think they’re haunting me,” Caleb admitted, his voice thin and so pathetically quiet, and yet still it rang far too loud in the silence of the study. He closed his eyes, closed them tight, already watering with the smoke and flames that only danced behind his eyelids. “I think they’re haunting me,” his voice shook, “and I am _so tired_ of fighting them.”

Caleb finally let himself lean into Fjord gratefully as he felt his arms wrap more securely around his waist, a soft, quietly devastated sound escaping Fjord’s chest. After a long while, impossible to know how long, he felt himself turning, felt Fjord gently guiding them a step back, until the backs of Caleb’s thighs bumped the desk and he sat at Fjord’s low urging. Fjord disentangled himself enough to pull the desk chair forward and sat directly in front of him, close enough that his hand still rested on Caleb’s knee. No matter how small the contact, the tether between them, Caleb was grateful for it. 

Fjord’s tone was gentle. Careful. And didn’t question the apparent absurdity of the notion. “Who?”

“Astrid,” Caleb rasped. “Ikithon. Eodwulf now it seems, though _he_ is still alive,” he choked, the strangled noise that died in his throat not quite a laugh at the irony of it, but close. He shook his head, not continuing until he’d forced another measured breath in and out of his lungs. “Fitting. They would both enjoy this.”

There was a crease in Fjord’s brow, his expression strained as he worked to recall something. “I’m familiar with that second name, I think,” he said, words coming as slowly as the memory. “Ikithon. His name came up, at the Winter’s Crest Gala?” He glanced to Caleb as if for confirmation, and Caleb nodded, Fjord’s arrival in that particular conversation coming readily to mind. “A former archmage.”

“Yes,” Caleb breathed, swallowing what felt like a mouthful of ash. Fjord didn’t ask for elaboration, and wouldn’t. But he had already asked, and no, it wouldn’t be too much, so Caleb continued anyway. “My old Ma–” He stopped himself, deep-seated anger flaring up again. “Teacher,” he amended; more apt, and it felt like it stole less away from him. “My old teacher.”

“He was killed in the war,” Fjord recalled what he had overheard. “Before you joined the Assembly.” Not exactly a question, not as Fjord gently gauged how much Caleb was willing to offer, but it might as well have been. 

“Yes. At– yes.” 

It was easier to stare at the carpet, at the places it was worn thin and where the pattern faded, but still he was grounded, the steady tether of Fjord’s touch, no matter how light, calling him back from where his mind threatened to drift. He took a shuddering breath, relaxing his hands so that his fingernails stop biting into his palms. 

“He and Astrid both,” Caleb rasped. “And I don’t –” He shook his head, lifting his eyes to meet Fjord’s. “I don’t regret his death for a second. Not for a second,” he swore, that conviction just as strong as the moment he’d made his decision those years ago. “Some monsters forfeit their right to breathe the same air as the rest of us. But Astrid…” His confidence, if he ever had it about her death, shattered. Caleb looked away, the grief he still felt for his once friend a stark contrast to the anger.

Fjord’s tone was kind. “You cared for her.”

He was not sentimental. He never had been, and couldn’t afford to be now. But still Caleb could never resist the useless distinction between who Astrid was and who she became.

Yes, he cared for her. He always cared for her. 

Yes, he might have even loved her. Once. 

He nodded, a curt gesture. “We came up together. In Blumenthal. In the Academy. The three of us were classmates. Friends,” he decided, and that didn’t begin to cover it, what they endured together, what they would not have survived alone, but it was what Fjord would understand. “Astrid and Wulf and I. Under–” and here his voice trembled – “Ikithon’s tutelage.” 

Slowly, finally, Caleb lifted his eyes from the ground and found Fjord’s, listening in rapt attention.

“I killed them, Fjord,” he said, finding lingering grief and anger in confusing equal parts where he expected to feel an absence of anything, a hollow chasm between his ribs, like every other rare occasion his past resurfaced. And it was not entirely unwelcome, to _feel_ those words accompanied by something other than melancholic lassitude. “Both of them. Wulf and I, together. But it was my idea.”

There was surprise in Fjord’s eyes, sudden enough to reach his brow and twist his mouth into the beginnings of a question before he caught himself. But there was also a patient faith where, from another, Caleb might have expected condemnation before even he could put his justification to words. But then, to both men violence was a familiar toolset, and neither had ever pretended with one another that their hands were clean.

Fjord didn’t ask any questions, didn’t demand any answers. In a way it made Caleb’s explanation harder. It made him start at the beginning. He tried, though unsure how successfully, to explain how it felt to be chosen. How it felt to be _of use_ to the Empire, to a greater cause. Selected by an archmage of the Cerberus Assembly of all people. How they had revelled in it then tasted nothing of the ashes and blood that clung to his senses now. For some reason, that felt important. That he had changed. That he knew better now. 

His story didn’t linger on the methods of his old master’s tutelage, letting the scars of his experimentation speak to the nature and intensity of his lessons. Fjord was acquainted enough with those. He rather focused on what they had become because of it. 

“Do you know what the _Vollstrecker_ , the Scourgers, are, Fjord?” Pausing his narrative, he shook himself free of the past to ask it, finding it difficult to focus his eyes. 

Fjord was slow to answer, swallowing and struggling to speak past his shuttered distress. “Any sailor knows a good ghost story or two,” he said, with a weak smile and growing unease. “I’ve, yeah I’ve– _fuck_ , Caleb.” His attempt at a smile faltered, and Fjord stood. Caleb shifted without thinking, just habit, to make room between his knees as he crowded closer, reaching out.

Caleb leaned into his touch, letting his eyes fall closed as Fjord gently swept the hair from his brow and his hands lifted to cup either side of Caleb’s face. It was nice, though the kiss Fjord pressed to his forehead was unexpected, pulling a shallow huff of laughter from his chest. 

“What was that for?” Caleb asked with a faint breath of amusement, though he certainly wasn’t protesting, if anything allowing himself to lean further into it, his fingers winding into the worn fabric of the front of Fjord’s shirt. 

“Me,” Fjord murmured against his skin, pulling a wavering smile to Caleb’s lips. Fjord didn’t say anything else, but neither did he pull away, one arm looped around Caleb’s back and the other hand a warm weight at the back of his neck, Fjord’s head bowed so that their foreheads pressed together.

“That was sixteen years ago, when I graduated,” he recalled, until actually considering those words and the screaming red memories they referenced brought down a sudden, palpable wave of dread that threatened to make Caleb physically ill. “I don’t–” He choked on his words, and focused on forcing air into his lungs. “What we _did_ , Fjord– _what I di_ – I don’t– I –” 

He hardly heard the quiet soothing words Fjord offered as they washed over him, hiding his shame and his guilt in Fjord’s shoulder as the past gradually settled back into place, distance and time smoothing cruel edges, blurring the lens.

“It was unforgivable,” Caleb rasped. “It–” He shuddered, shaking his head at the protest Fjord was about to voice, the reassurance he didn’t have to say anything. “It nearly broke me. And I only tell you that because, you have to understand Fjord, we were, we are, _not_ good people. The three of us, what we did, what we _continued_ to do for years in the name of King and Empire… But he– Ikithon was worse. If not for what he did to us, then for _what he had us do_.”

Caleb took a breath, collecting himself as best he could before continuing, the words gradually coming easier. The longer it went on, the more he and Wulf failed to truly buy into it, the blind faith. Especially not after Ikithon began to go mad with his obsession over these beacons, these artifacts of a magic the Dynasty developed, and how he might twist them, use them to preserve his own life past a natural end. He threatened the balance of the Assembly, he threatened the interests of the Crown in pursuit of his own, but Astrid…  

Caleb shook his head, exhaling heavily. “She became more our keeper than our friend. In the end, she was too loyal, too determined to _become him_ to be reasoned with, or saved.” 

Ironically, not much changed after they died, and admitting it, putting words to it, Caleb’s voice took a bitter, hardened quality. He had become more involved with the war as it escalated, being moved to the front more than once to provide a countermeasure to the strange magic wielded by the Kryn’s battle mages. 

He became, for the first time, visible. And earned a reputation for the violence that war exhorts like no other.

“I’m sorry,” Fjord whispered in the lull as Caleb’s story began to come full circle, so low he nearly missed it. His hand warm against the side of Caleb’s jaw, Fjord’s thumb swept over his cheek as Caleb tilted his head back to meet his gaze. 

It struck him as… strange. Odd enough to bring a faint quirk to his lips. “Why are you apologizing?” Caleb asked, transfixed by the momentary softness in Fjord’s expression, the floating orbs behind him casting amber light and shadow over his face. “I wanted to tell you. I owe you as much.”

Fjord bowed his head, pressing his forehead and Caleb’s and lingering there, noses and lips brushing. “For everything,” he breathed, pulling away far enough that Caleb saw the worry and   sorrow that touched his brow. “That you didn’t have a choice in most of it, and when you did…” His sentence trailed off, seeming to think better of returning to the topic of how Caleb orchestrated the deaths of his friend and teacher. 

Caleb sighed, dropping his gaze. “I don’t want your pity, Fjord. I don’t need it.”

“I understand you a bit too much to pity you,” Fjord admonished, a curl to the corner of his mouth. “I would never.”

Caleb looked away, the sort of discomfort itching at the back of his throat that made him want to summon Frumpkin. He shoved it aside though, allowing himself this, if only for a moment. He leaned into Fjord, resting his head against his shoulder and very nearly groaning as he felt Fjord’s hand gently kneading at the back of his neck.

“And now,” Fjord began, low and unhurried as he picked up after a quiet lapse, “Eodwulf is in Zadash as of last night. That’s –” He exhaled heavily. “Untimely.”

“If Nott’s information is correct,” Caleb agreed from Fjord’s shoulder, exhausted and unwilling to lift his head. “So it would seem.”

“You don’t think he, or the Scourgers, had anything to do with it?” he asked, doubt creeping in at the edges of Fjord’s tone.

It took him a long time to determine how to even begin to answer that question. “The men who died and the survivor from last night may or may not be members of the Myriad, but they are not _Vollstrecker_ ,” he said, that obvious for so many reasons, the least of them being that Caleb severely doubted his chances if they were. 

“But?” Fjord asked, sensing his hesitation.

“But, I believe it likely that whoever within the Assembly is prolonging this war is using them, somehow. Partly that does not make sense – they answer only to the Crown. But it would explain how privileged information is reaching the Dynasty from Dwendal’s own war counsel. There are very few people who were aware of my research at Felderwin. And it would explain the concerning degree of precision and organization in the attacks on both sides of this conflict that our own military incident reports don’t catalogue.”

Fjord was slow to voice his next thought. “Caleb… Can I–  can I ask you something?” Caleb hummed an affirmative. “You keep saying that. Always, ‘whoever’s prolonging to war,’ ‘whoever in the Assembly is preventing peace.’ You say it like you don’t know.” Fjord withdrew slightly, angling Caleb’s chin up to look at him. “But that’s not quite true, is it?”

Fjord’s words rang in his ears. He replayed them, as if he hadn’t heard them correctly, as if the question surprised him. He did, and it didn’t, but still, that wasn’t to say Caleb expected it. 

For a moment Caleb just blinked back at him, jaw working but the words not there. “No,” he finally disagreed. Because he had to. “N– no, I don’t. I– I always have my suspicions but that is hardly the same thing.” And that was true. Because he didn’t know. Because he couldn’t. Not when the accusation was this serious. Not without evidence damning enough that even he, more suspicious than those he would need to convince – and convince _well_ –  would be forced to reconcile the facts with the stupid hope that he could be wrong.

Fjord, rightfully so, didn’t seem entirely convinced. Not by the set of his jaw and slight tilt to his head. But then, Caleb had only ever meant to convince himself. Anything more would feel too much like a lie.

Caleb turned his head, pulling away from Fjord’s hand as he dropped his eyes to the floor, just for a moment. Fjord didn’t try to stop him, didn’t challenge his answer either, and the silence grew.

“Do you know what you’re going to do next?” Fjord finally asked, leaning in closer as his hand settled at the small of Caleb’s back, his words soft and breath warm against Caleb’s neck as he pressed a kiss that felt too much like an apology behind his ear. 

“I think,” Caleb mumbled after a moment, the tension he hadn’t realized he’d regained draining out of his shoulders as he leaned forward against Fjord’s chest again, resting his head on his shoulder. “I am going to close my eyes for a bit.”

An amused sound escaped from the back of Fjord’s throat. “That so?” he chuckled softly, pressing another kiss to Caleb’s temple.

He hummed a low note of agreement. “Until Nott returns.”

“Do you want to lie down for a bit, in a proper bed maybe?”

Caleb signed at the prospect, though there wouldn’t be time for that. Never enough time. “ _Nein_ ,” he mumbled into Fjord’s shoulder, shaking his head as much as he was able. “ _Ich denke, ich möchte hier bleiben._ ”

“Sure,” Fjord chuckled, tousling Caleb’s hair fondly. “You just let me know if you’d like me to move.”

Nuzzling closer, Caleb hummed something close to acceptance of those terms, though he wasn’t going to say anything. He was, for the time being, content to allow the illusion cast by the walls around him remain, and resume his worrying and planning upon Nott’s return.

He would allow himself that.


End file.
